


In Treatment

by tzzzz



Series: In Treatment 'verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alpha Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bad Sex, Baseball, Biphobia, Bisexuality, Biting, Blood, Bonding, Bottom Derek, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Breeding Kink, Broken Bones, Businessman Derek, Derek Gets Therapy, Derek Needs Therapy, Dirty Talk, Drunkenness, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face-Sitting, Fisting, Gender Issues, Genderplay, Heartache, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, LGBTQ Themes, Lactation, Lactation Kink, Light BDSM, Lingerie, M/M, Male Lactation, Malia Tate is not a Hale, Masturbation, Mating, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Negotiations, Omega Derek, Pheromones, Praise Kink, Pregnant Sex, Psychological Trauma, Queer Themes, Racist Language, Realistic, Recovery, Rimming, Scott and Stiles are Brothers, Sex Toys, Sexism, Strap-Ons, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unsafe Sex, Worldbuilding, discussion of asexuality, dubious medical ethics, just alphas and omegas no betas, multifetal pregnancy reduction, reference to child abandonment, risk of miscarriage, sexual surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 166,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzzzz/pseuds/tzzzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek hires Stiles, a professional alpha sex therapist, to help him through his heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to notalickofsense (Lies_d) and laisserais for beta/inspiration.
> 
> For speakers of German, Korean and any other languages that might cause problems, in this fic:  
> *oma - omega female parent  
> *opa - omega male parent  
> *apa - alpha male parent  
> *ama - alpha female parent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, a professional heat therapist, meets his newest patient, Derek Hale.

“Good morning. Welcome to the Presidio Clinic and Heat Spa,” Isaac says with the same droll yet annoyingly _awake_ timber he saves for every early morning, probably just to annoy Stiles. Granted, it’s actually ten o’clock, but Stiles is on a post-treatment day and his coffee maker has been in a fitful death spiral for the past few weeks. 

“Calm yourself, you baby-faced menace. It’s just me. We’re not Walmart. You don’t have to greet everybody.”

Isaac, as usual, ignores the insult and instead tosses Stiles a chart, which he fumbles in a flail of limbs that has Dr. Deaton raising his eyebrows from the waiting area. Deaton’s patient, a painfully thin girl with a headscarf and permanent IV port, forgoes subtlety and all-out snorts at Stiles’s antics.

 _Was a big enough idiot to make a cancer patient laugh,_ Stiles thinks. _Good deed for the day accomplished_.

“So, Isaac, what have we got?” Stiles asks, once a surreptitious glance reveals that there are no more patients lurking on the waiting area’s fluffy purple sofas.

“Four patient debrief sessions and a new intake. Also, you’re behind on your claim forms. You know that the new Obamacare billing procedures require a two week turn-around, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get on it. Just don’t nag me.” 

The lights of the clinic’s front area are calming and the warm wood paneling, copious orchids, and small fountain are all designed to soothe nervous or strung-out omegas. Today, however, everything is setting Stiles on edge. He wants to uproot a few ficuses and strangle Isaac with his newest rendition of the hipster scarf. Stiles’s body yearns to lounge in bed, curl up protectively around his recently-bred omega, and snarl at any who dares threaten.

Except he doesn’t have an omega. What he has is a job. The omega he’d mounted for the past three days is just a client undergoing a routine medical procedure -- not being bred, not his to claim. Stiles feels empty, bereft, and anxious even though he knows it’s just withdrawal from the pheromone high of the past few days.

“Hey, I managed to schedule all your admin work for the month today. If you finish the claim forms, you won’t have to come in other than for treatments.”

Stiles knows he should say thank you for the extra days off, but his last client’s heat came late so he’s here bright and early after only having finished a three-day fuckfest six hours ago. Stiles just waves in a way he hopes Isaac takes as a compliment and tries not to growl. He normally schedules himself a full post-treatment recovery day for a reason. 

“Okay, still Aping?” Isaac remarks, like Alpha Post Estrus Syndrome is just some quaint monkey business and not pure physical torture. “Sorry.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” Stiles replies, pressing at the headache forming between his temples. “I shouldn’t snap at you. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Isaac had started out as a court-mandated patient, Stiles reminds himself. When Stiles did his initial intake interview, Isaac had been terrified of his own heat, yet rabid for it. His alpha father had locked him in a freezer during heat until Isaac escaped and killed the man in a knot-denial frenzy. Allison had worked miracles with the kid before she left to help run the family business.

“Thanks, but don’t worry about it. I’ve been an employee at a heat clinic long enough to know when an alpha’s Aping.” He grins boyishly, still scared to be proud of himself. “Your new intake is waiting in your office,” Isaac adds. “He was scaring the other patients so I let him back early.”

Stiles fixes Isaac with a stern, if somewhat uncomprehending, look. “Scaring them how? And why would you let someone unstable back in the private areas?”

“Not scary unstable,” Isaac says. “Just scary, like he glares a lot.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, looking down at the chart as he makes his way around Isaac’s circular reception area and through the frosted glass doors to the back. Derek [last name expunged]: 32 year-old omega, in _excellent_ physical health, no listed medical history or court mandate, insurance declined medical coverage, no listed referral. Already paid for treatment and left a deposit. 

“Another lazy rich guy hiring a licensed hooker for his heat,” Stiles murmurs to himself. He hasn’t seen one of those in years. The non-medical cases usually end up with newbie heat therapists who have only the basic certification. Stiles is overqualified, but the guy is just coming off suppressants so his heat could crop up any time. That means that he’ll get assigned to the senior on-call therapist and with Stiles opting for the triple overtime for on-call over the holidays, likelihood is that he’ll be saddled with the guy. Strangely, that’s not the reason Isaac booked him for this intake interview. According to the file, Derek requested Stiles specifically by license number. This isn’t uncommon: Stiles has training up the wazoo and excellent patient reviews. But Derek doesn’t appear to _need_ any of that training, at least on paper.

Stiles makes his way back to the consult office, holding his breath by the treatment rooms, because the last thing his raging APES needs is to catch a whiff of omega heat pheromones. He’s so busy trying to hold his breath that Stiles trips over the welcome mat at the front of the counseling room and nearly rips the door off its hinges. 

Derek does nothing but raise a pair of ridiculously attractive eyebrows, but Stiles feels his judgment anyway. It’s unprofessional as all fuck, but Stiles just stares at the omega sitting there like a greek statue on the office’s pale green sofa. Derek shines like the world’s most awkward beacon in the overdesigned, homey environment of the consult room. He doesn’t offer Stiles a hand up, just looks expectant until Stiles stumbles to his feet and retreats behind the battlement of the wide cherry-wood desk. 

The thing is, sitting there in a gray Henley and skintight jeans, Derek is a more attractive omega than Stiles could ever hope to entice into bed out in the real world. He’s the kind of omega that would spit in the face of a clumsy, hyperactive mess like Stiles before he’d consent to hang off his arm. With that artfully crafted stubble, those wide shoulders and narrow waist, the aristocratic cheekbones and the sculpted pecs and the perfect combination of masculine strength and omega beauty, Derek could have sex with any alpha he wants. And that’s before taking into account that positively heavenly _smell_. It’s like fresh baked bread and Christmas and warmth and sweetness and _fertility,_ all rolled up into one neat, perfectly balanced package. Why in the hell is an omega like that in heat therapy?

Luckily, Stiles manages to hang on to enough professionalism to not blurt that out, but rather asks, “So, Derek, what exactly do you hope to get out of your treatment?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” Derek responds. He crosses his hands over his chest, making his biceps bulge. Stiles’s mouth goes dry and, despite having had sex with more omegas that the vast majority of alphas, he might as well be that bumbling, overcompensating, awkward high school kid all over again, because he’s never been good at dealing with attractive people.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re absolutely right. I should introduce myself. I’m Stiles.” Even after years of giving this spiel, it feels wrong not to offer his last name, but rules are rules and it only takes one stalker to realize that they’re in place for a reason. “You can reference my license number on our website. I’m a senior heat therapist here. Certified in literally everything, from hebestral non-partnered therapy to accommodation for extreme physical limitations, neither of which you’d need. Obviously.”

When Derek deepens his angry frown, Stiles backpedals. “Which is not to say that you don’t deserve one of our senior therapists. Just that you don’t seem in need of any specialized training or really any help finding a heat partner. We run a few medically supervised heat rooms for two non-licensed consenting adults to get down in ... if you’re looking to save money. And we partner with a heat matching service, if anonymity is your thing. I personally teach seminars on partner heat accommodation and am totally up for private consults and-- Dude, if you keep staring at me, I’m just going to keep talking and neither of us will benefit from that, so, why don’t you put me out of my misery and tell me why you’ve requested me specifically when there’s nothing I can give you that a friendly stranger with a knot can’t?”

Derek smirks a little and says, “No.”

“No?!? What do you _mean_ , no?” Who in the hell says no to a simple, clinical question like that?

“I requested you. That’s all you need to know. You don’t have to take me on as a patient, but I’m here to see a heat therapist, not meet a partner. I have the money to pay for your services. You don’t need to worry about what would be cheaper for me.” 

Stiles doesn’t care about Derek’s financial situation, more about the fact that it’s such a _waste_ for someone like Derek to pay for Stiles’s time when there are omegas out there who actually need Stiles’s training to be able to survive their heat. Derek is cutting into their time. Stiles’s last patient was a quadriplegic who’d spent her whole heat in a fancy sex swing. The patient before that was covered in burn scars and was working with Stiles and a psychotherapist to build self-esteem. The one before that had been a young girl with a suppressant allergy who Stiles showed how to use a dildo.

“Fine,” Stiles spits, caught somewhere between anger and arousal. “You’re rich. I get it. I’m the on-call therapist for the two weeks over the holidays, so there’s a good chance I’ll end up with you even if we don’t schedule you for an induced heat, but no promises.” 

“I don’t want an induced heat,” Derek says almost instantly. 

“That’s understandable. I’ve seen enough induced heats to know that you’ve got to be crazy or an insurance company to think they’re a good idea.” Induced heats are brutal: a hormone shot and a single day of frenzied, animalistic fucking that the omegas rarely remember. Stiles wouldn’t wish one on his worst enemy.

“I’d cut off my arm before I’d do another one of those.” 

That’s when Stiles notices it: a near-imperceptible tremor that Derek is neatly covering by keeping his arms tucked close to his body. Despite all the glaring, there’s an undercurrent of fear beneath the bravado. Derek may have dressed provocatively and he may have affected indifference, but Stiles is suddenly aware that it’s all a shell covering a scared, damaged soul beneath. 

Stiles recalls what he learned in his very first training session: people don’t see heat therapists without a reason. Most of the rich assholes who hire them don’t look like Derek - they’re the kind of guys who’d probably have to pay for sex if they wanted even an alpha like Stiles. Derek must know exactly how attractive he is. He’s here for a reason and the reason is probably trauma. _Good job, Stiles,_ Stiles thinks, _way to act like an asshole to an already scared-shitless patient who has probably been raped or has PTSD or something._

“Okay, so we’re not inducing. Unfortunately, that means you can’t reserve a particular therapist. Odds are that it’ll be me, but if I’m not available when your heat hits, we should talk options.”

“I think it’s too late for that,” Derek says dryly.

Stiles wants to kick himself for not realizing sooner, because that heavenly smell isn’t just the smell of attractive, fertile omega. It’s attractive, fertile omega _in heat_. If Stiles hadn’t been so busy holding his breath in the corridor or too flustered by Derek’s sheer hotness to sit next to him on the couch, he would have already smelled it. And now that he’s conscious of it, his instinct is telling him to claim this gorgeous omega right this instant. Stiles shifts a little in his seat in a practiced move to reposition his sudden erection.

“Okay.” He schools himself back into professional demeanor. “How long have you been experiencing symptoms of pre-heat?” At Derek’s blank look, Stiles rolls his eyes. “You know: slick production, skin sensitivity, pupil dilation, temperature flashes, all around general horniness?”

Derek shrugs. “Since last night.”

“Jesus.” Even if Derek is on the outside of average, he’ll be in full active estrus within the hour. It’s lucky that he’s even in control right now, especially considering that he’s coming off of long-term suppressant use. “You know we have a procedure for these things. You’re supposed to call in at the first sign so we can schedule a therapist and prep a room for you.”

Stiles opens the desk drawer to pull out this month’s schedule to check who’s on-call.

“I figured I was coming in today anyway. I didn’t want to call in the middle of the night.”

Stiles shakes his head at the idiocy of it. “We have medically overseen heats going on here 24/7. There’s always someone to take your call. Now, no thanks to you, I have to call in Erica at the last minute.” And Stiles knows for a fact that she and Boyd headed out to her Aunt’s place in the mountains three hours away, figuring that she’d have the usual minimum of six hours notice. What a nightmare.

“You can’t just do it?” Derek looks legitimately frightened for the first time that he’s allowed Stiles to see. His skin has gone flushed and small beads of sweat are forming on his temples, but it’s not the heat that has him spooked. It’s the mention of Erica.

“I’m coming off a three-day shift and I have admin appointments for the rest of the day. If Erica can’t get back in time, we’ll call in one of our affiliated freelancers. Don’t worry, they’ve all been thoroughly vetted.” 

Derek starts to look panicked now, pulling at the collar of his Henley enough to expose the faint traces of a faded mating bite. By the size of it, Stiles assumes the past alpha that has Derek so spooked was a girl.

“I take it you’re not comfortable with female alphas.”

Derek nods.

“Okay, I need you to be straight with me, because we’re running short on time and I want to find you the best partner possible: what do you need?”

Derek’s panting, near hyperventilating. Stiles rises to offer him a glass of water almost on instinct. His scent is heady and Stiles feels a spark of electricity where their fingers brush on the glass. He hasn’t been this affected by an omega in a long time. This is one of the many reasons why he usually stays away from the clinic when he’s Aping. 

Derek takes a few gulping sips of his water, hands shaking. “I need to be in control,” he eventually chokes out, fingers compulsively bunching in the supple fabric at the bottom of his shirt.

“Okay. You know that you’re in complete control over whatever happens here, right? Any therapist with clinical response training has to practice all kinds of things in a room full of pheromones. If you want me to pull out and do ten jumping jacks every time before I knot, I can.”

“I want to be on top,” Derek forces out.

Stiles marks that down on Derek’s chart. “Totally doable. That’s one of the most common requests from physically restricted patients. Anything else?”

“I would really, um, appreciate it if you didn’t touch me.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, because that is a little...impossible.

“I mean, I’ll touch you when I have to,” Derek clarifies. Stiles wants to point out that he’s not the one who will be taking care of Derek’s therapy, but the more he hears, the less he wants to trust Derek to one of the freelancers. Most of them only have a basic certification. “And no more knotting than we have to.”

Stiles nods. Control of the knot is probably the top priority for qualification as a heat therapist. Stiles has all kinds of techniques to hold it off, like imagining his father and Melissa having sex, or telling his body it’s already knotted, and even a few New-Agey breathing techniques.

“Do you have an idea of how many times you’ll need the knot and when during your cycle?”

Derek looks bewildered, like he had no idea that people actually know those things. 

“I’ve had a lot of clients with severe physical restrictions that make knotting stressful on the body. It takes a few cycles, but we can normally map out a heat plan that keeps knotting to a minimum. It’s easiest if we can hook up a few monitors to measure heartrate and hormone spikes. Would you like us to try for something like that?”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s not a physical problem. I just--”

“Don’t want to be physically tied to another person,” Stiles finishes for him when it’s clear that Derek can’t finish the sentence himself. 

Derek nods. Jesus. Stiles isn’t a counselor (and he’s glad not to be), but even he can see that Derek has been through something awful. Stiles feels like even more of a jackass for misreading him. “Why did you request me, Derek?” Stiles whispers.

“I needed someone who can totally control himself.” Derek offers the statement like a prayer and Stiles can’t help the guilt flooding him. Yes, he wants nothing more than to go home and sleep off the last three days, but he got into this business to help people and Derek really needs his help. He picks up the phone and pages the front desk.

“Isaac, it’s Stiles. Clear my next three admin days and book me for clinical duty. See if you can get Erica to cover my next patient, since I’m doing her a huge ass favor by covering. Are any of the treatment rooms prepped?”

Isaac sounds surprised but stays professional, letting Stiles know that the Open Sky Suite is open. Of course. Stiles hates the fucking Open Sky Suite. Only the look of relief and gratitude in Derek’s gorgeous green eyes makes it worth it.

“Okay, so it looks like I’ll be your heat therapist for this cycle and we don’t have much time for negotiation, so how about this: you are totally in charge. When I feel the instinct, which is normally a pretty good sign of a hormone spike (I’m sensitive like that), I’ll just ask you if you want to knot. You say yes if you need it and no if you don’t.”

Derek nods, tensing when Stiles moves to sit down next to him on the couch even though he’s still a calculated four feet away. 

“I just want to warn you; the literature is pretty clear - completely avoiding knotting at the beginning of the cycle normally leads to longer cycles and more knotting towards the end. I’ll do whatever you want, but I highly suggest a knotting within the first hour. If your body cooperates, you may only need one or two more per day after that.”

Derek nods again.

“Okay, I’ll get you a consent form and let Deaton know and then we can get this party started.”

Derek still looks unsure, completely devoid of all his previous aggression.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “I don’t know your story, but I promise I will do my best to make this as painless for you as possible. Pinky swear?”

Stiles isn’t expecting the soft guffaw when he offers his pinky. He certainly isn’t prepared for the barely visible smile that somehow manages to make Derek even sexier. 

“Okay, let’s do this,” Stiles says with a slap to his own thighs. He knows he’s blushing under Derek’s regard, but fuck it, he’s a consummate professional, but he’s also human.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles helps Derek through his heat.

“So, I know this is kind of terrible,” Stiles says, gesturing to the suite. “Unfortunately it’s the only one available.”

The Open Sky Suite is designed to simulate ‘natural’ heats -- like an omega ranch, except way, way lamer. The ceiling is painted with clouds and lit with colored lights to simulate sunrise and sunset. The walls are made of cool, uncut stone and the columns that support the ceiling are tree trunks. In the center, there’s a blue jacuzzi tub, trying but utterly failing to be a mountain lake. Worst of all, there’s a “cave” area -- a glorified fireplace full of leaves, in place of Stiles’s preferred king-sized mattress full of pillows.

Derek shrugs, but there’s the ghost of a grin on his face when he bends down to bury his hands in the dirty grass that has replaced carpeting in this bucolic monstrosity.

“Oh, great, you actually go in for this hippy bullshit?” Stiles blurts out before he can stop himself. He winces, hoping that Derek hasn’t noticed the slip in professionalism.

“I like nature.” Derek eases himself down onto a log that just screams ass-splinters to Stiles. Nobody should be at risk of ass-splinters while _inside a building_.

”You ever have a heat outdoors?” Stiles asks, because despite his obvious trauma, Stiles can totally picture Derek doing a naked mating _run_ through the forest. He’d be fast, but Stiles’s alpha senses would be superior. He’d track him, crouch down and pounce, push Derek up against a tree and bury himself in--

Derek clears his throat and Stiles realizes that he’s been lost in fantasy. The omega is practically hemorrhaging pheromones now and Stiles aches to touch him. It’s a familiar desire, however, one that Stiles is well accustomed to leaving unrequited. 

“Sorry. What? It’s been a long week.”

“I wanted to know when you plan to knot me. You said sooner is better.”

Stiles takes a moment to stare at Derek, who is the only patient, ever, to still look attractive dressed in a hospital gown. He’s sitting primly, as though he’s having dinner with the Queen of England, not in stage 2 estrus. Derek is in no way ready for a knotting. 

“Look, I get that you don’t want me touching you. That’s fine. I should be pumping out enough pheromones by now to kick you into stage 3, but I’m not just going to shove it in there before you’re ready. That won’t be good for either of us, so you’re going to have to touch yourself.”

Stiles picks up a plastic rock concealing a sealed supply pack. Derek just stares at the glove and bottle of lube Stiles hands him. Stiles takes mercy and grabs them back. 

“If that’s too much, start by touching yourself. Try your nipples. They should be sensitive this far into heat. Brush against them with your palm at first.” Derek looks skeptical, but eventually complies. It isn’t long before he’s gasping. God, what a picture he makes with his head thrown back, exposing a long neck and his stubbled jaw. Stiles wants to lick him all over.

“Feels good, right?”

Derek nods, whimpering. 

“How about you pinch them a little?” Stiles is painfully hard now. His knot is starting to make inquiries, hardening just slightly at the base of his cock. He’s done his fair share of hebestrus counseling, but this is the first time he’s ever been remotely turned on by showing an omega how to pleasure himself.

“Stiles,” Derek gasps. “Feels so good.”

“I know,” Stiles replies, choking down the ‘baby’ he’d wanted to add to the end of that sentence. “You’re doing great, Derek. I can smell you getting ready for the knot.”

Derek spreads his legs in response, probably not aware that he’s doing it. He slides down to the ground and bucks as he touches himself. His hole is gleaming with slick, looking exposed, almost raw. Stiles licks his lips but stays seated cross-legged in the corner. Derek isn’t looking, so Stiles pinches himself whenever he gets too aroused. Derek needs an alpha with control and Stiles intends to deliver.

Derek is thrusting up into the air, his smaller omega cock tenting the ridiculous hospital gown. Stiles wants to rip it off him, but instead he asks. “Are you okay with that material on you? You must be sensitive. You can take off the gown. It’s meant to be taken off. Obviously. I mean, I can already see your ass, but don’t mind me; I’m not shy.”

Derek stops his writhing long enough to lean up and glare at him. “Maybe I am.”

“Whatever makes you feel good, dude. This is your rodeo. I’m just here to facilitate.”

“You’re hardly the bull in this situation.” Derek means to be derisive, but Stiles can’t help but grin at the comment.

“I don’t know. I think I’m a pretty awesome stud. I don’t have the horns or the anger issues, but I’ve got a pretty nice cock. You’ll see.” It’s a risk, because the alpha who hurt Derek might’ve been an arrogate jerk with a clit complex. But Stiles’s instincts say that babying Derek won't help. 

Derek just snorts and rubs his nipples some more. 

“Looks like it’s time to grab the lube,” Stiles advises. “You’re already pretty open, so start with two fingers. Glove is totally optional.”

Derek attempts to pull the glove on, but ends up forgoing even the lube in his rush to bury two fingers in his ass.

“Holy shit!” Stiles squeaks. He has to clamp a hand around the base of his cock to keep his knot from popping. “You don’t do things by halves.”

In response, Derek shoves two more fingers in with a choked sob. “Need it.”

“Obviously.” Stiles is mesmerized, watching Derek’s fingers pump in and out of him. He’s flushed all over and even his desperate gulps of air seem calculated to push Stiles to the brink. It’s been a long time since Stiles watched porn outside of treatment, but he knows that if he could record this image, he’d be wanking to it for the rest of his life. 

“When are you going to knot me, Stiles?” Derek asks, matter-of-fact even now.

“Whenever you want. Tell me where you want me, cowboy, and I’ll lie down and you can hop on for a ride.”

“Enough with the rodeo metaphors,” Derek keens, levering himself up and crawling over to Stiles. His eyes are glazed and it looks as though he can barely keep them open. The air is so thick with their combined scent that Stiles is afraid to breathe too deeply. He stays still only by force of will.

Stiles is ashamed that he lets out the world’s least manly screech when Derek suddenly lifts him up and deposits him on his back in the middle of the room. “Oh my god!” He flails and flops around like a fish on the dock until he manages to finally sit up. “Actually, that was kind of hot.”

Derek smirks as he pushes Stiles back down and yanks his scrub bottoms off in one smooth motion.

“And that was _really_ hot.” 

From Derek’s long list of don’ts, Stiles assumed he'd be more of a delicate flower in bed. He's glad to find that once Derek’s been assured of Stiles’s compliance, he seems glad to simply take. Derek rubs himself against Stiles from head to toe, nuzzling until their scents merge into something downright delectable. Usually the alpha is the one to mark the omega, but this switch-up is turning Stiles on more than is strictly professional. There’s a reason that Stiles has only ever dated other alphas. It's the same reason why it wasn’t much of a struggle to quell his alpha instincts in heat training.

“Fuck me,” Stiles gasps before he even realizes he’s said anything out loud. In his defense, being tossed around and having his pants ripped off usually precedes a good, hard fucking.

“I was getting to it,” Derek growls. He straddles Stiles and, damn, he’s not just strong, but flexible too. Then, just as he hovers over Stiles, the aggressive confidence vanishes and he sags back, almost onto Stiles's nuts. Stiles reaches down with one hand to protect his nards and grabs Derek’s hand with the other. He knows that Derek doesn’t want to be touched, but Stiles can see him zoning. He needs at least some comfort. 

“Hey.” Stiles holds Derek’s gaze once Derek finally looks down at him. It must suck, Stiles thinks, to look so beautiful even with that haunted, ashamed expression. “You’re in control here. I’m just a very realistic dildo with a person attached. Take your time.”

“I haven’t--” Derek starts. He clears his throat. He’s dripping sweat, skin flushed with the heat that’s got him fully ensnared now. “I want you so bad, but I don’t. It’s been a long time.”

Seven years, according to the file. And based on Derek’s behavior, Stiles isn’t sure how much sex Derek had before that and how much of it was with male alphas. He’s fairly certain not much of it was heat sex. 

“Trust me,” Stiles says. “I’ve seen it all. I’m here for you. There’s nothing you have to do to impress me or pleasure me. Unless you plan to murder me and rip my junk off and wear it as a tiara. I gotta draw the line somewhere.”

“Can I murder you and use your junk as something else?” Derek counters. He’s shaking with want, but he manages a small smile.

Stiles can’t help but laugh. The glaring and the aggression took a little getting used to, but the gorgeousness and the dry humor for the win. “How about you spare my life for now? At least until we get you through this heat?”

Derek sobers. He’s still frozen above Stiles, but he’s leaning minutely closer. Stiles wants to surge up and kiss him, of all things, but Derek is shaking and still gripping Stiles’s hand tight.

After giving Derek more than a minute, Stiles asks, “Do you want me to help? I can stay right here. I’ll direct things. Make sure Tab A goes into Slot B. You just sink down and let gravity do the work for us, okay?”

Derek nods, clenching his jaw in determination. Stiles brings their joined palms to his lips and plants a kiss on the back of Derek’s hand. This isn’t in the manual, but it feels right. “It’ll be good,” he says as much to himself as to Derek. “You’ll see.” 

Derek studies Stiles as he pulls a condom and another tube of lube out of his scrub pocket. Derek is wet and dripping delicious-smelling slick all over Stiles’s straining cock, but extra lube never hurts. 

Derek whimpers as he painstakingly lowers himself. It is the sexiest thing Stiles has ever seen, but he can’t help but close his eyes in sheer pleasure as Derek settles around him. So tight and slick and hot. Derek’s look of surprised ecstasy and utter relief will be Stiles’s undoing. He fucked another omega less than ten hours ago, but he just wants to stay in this moment forever.

This is normally the time for a clinical ‘check in’ question, but this is the first time in forever that Stiles is actually desperate for the answer. He needs to know that he pleased his omega, that he impressed his omega enough to keep him. “Is it good?” Stiles pleads. 

Derek nods frantically. He grabs Stiles’s other hand and holds both of them to steady himself as he rocks up and down on Stiles’s cock. “So good, Stiles,” Derek gasps. He’s biting his lip to keep quiet. It’s sexy as all hell, but Stiles doesn’t want sexy if it means Derek holding himself back.

“These rooms are soundproof. It’s okay to let it out. Nobody is going to judge you if you enjoy this.”

Derek shoves down harshly, letting out an aborted shout.

“That’s it,” Stiles coaches. “Whatever makes you feel good.”

Derek’s next moan is long, but still timid.

Determined to wring more pleasure out of him, Stiles rocks his hips up to meet Derek’s. It’s an easy motion - not too fast, steady, unlike many of Stiles’s patients. They move together without a lot of finessing the rhythm on Stiles’s part. Despite the rocky start, Stiles knows that this heat is going to be a genuine pleasure. Already it's something he would gladly be paying for himself, rather than the other way around. 

To Stiles’s delight, Derek’s little exclamations get louder as their pace rushes forward, inevitable. Stiles is straining up into Derek in an effort to bury himself as deep into the omega’s fertile body as he can, as though he has a chance in hell of _breeding_ him.

“So good,” Derek moans. “I forgot. Stiles, your cock feels so good inside me. So full.”

“Tell me what you want, Derek,” Stiles gasps. Their hands are still clasped, but Stiles wants to grab Derek by the hips, pull him down onto Stiles even harder. He wants to hold Derek tight until he bruises, kiss him until they’re both gasping. He wants to fucking claim him and own him and spill his seed inside him, fill Derek up with his babies and protect them all. His knot is tightening. To hold off from coming, he has to envision the time he accidentally played Scott’s birth video.

“Knot me,” Derek sobs without prompting. “Please, Stiles, knot me.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He and Derek come as one. Stiles’s hands are tangled in Derek’s hair and they steal each other’s breath as they gulp through the denouement. Stiles whimpers as Derek flutters around him. He’s breathing so hard he’s a little scared he might choke. 

Derek collapses down on top of him, petting at him clumsily. “So good, Stiles,” he murmurs. Stiles isn’t sure Derek knows he’s saying this out loud. “You did so good.” Their combined scent is overwhelming. It smells right in a way that Stiles has never experienced before, like hearth and home and aesthetic perfection.

Derek sighs the sigh of a satisfied omega, tucking his chin up against Stiles’s chest and pulling the alpha into his arms. “Don’t leave,” he begs, in stark contrast to the stringent, standoffish rules he set down minutes ago. “Please don’t leave me.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Derek, we’re tied together. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Good,” Derek hums and kisses him. Stiles just goes with it, because who is he to argue when a man as beautiful as Derek wants to kiss him? Derek’s kisses are sweet and surprisingly soulful, considering his general scowling continence. 

Stiles is still coming when Derek shifts on top of him until they’re embracing. The motion wrings even more seed out of him. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever spilled this much before. It’s amazing he even has anything left in the tank coming off a three day heat. Derek is sucking down every last drop.

The rule about no unnecessary touching gets thrown out the window. For the next three days, Stiles and Derek don't go a moment without each other’s touch. Derek even pulls Stiles into the "cave" and makes him sleep pressed against wall. That's usually the omega's position, not that Stiles minds. He only minds not having a real bed to spread Derek out upon and a mountain of pillows to support him while they ride out the knot. 

Derek likes being on top, but he soon bends that rule as well. Stiles hefts him up against one of the tree trunks and fucks him as hard as he can before heat exhaustion takes over and he loses the strength. They fuck in the tub, with Derek in Stiles’s lap. They lay on their sides in the cave and rock slowly together. Derek even spreads his legs and lets Stiles fuck him into the fake field. The scratches on Stiles’s back match the trenches made by Derek’s fingers in the grass.

They talk both between sessions and after Derek’s heat starts to die down on the third day. The omega refuses to be separated from Stiles, even if it means he has to pay for another half day of treatment. Stiles never gets this quiet time to hold his omega close and nuzzle into his nape. It’s nice to trace the shape of Derek's tattoo and complain about the leaves stuck in his ass-crack rather than limp home to his shitty little apartment and his APES.

Even though they must talk for hours, it’s not about anything serious. Derek isn’t going to talk about what was done to him anytime soon and Stiles is too well-schooled in professional distance to reveal anything personal. Well, he reveals his opinion on Peter Jackson making three movies out of practically a children’s book. Also, he tells Derek the long, complex story of why he didn’t deserve detention for talking like Yoda for a week in gradeschool.

Derek doesn’t say much in return, other than to argue that New Zealand is way less awesome than LOTR makes it seem, that he once got detention for scowling too much (unsurprisingly), and that he’d gone through his own Jabba the Hutt phase.

At the end of three days, Stiles breaks all of his rules and kisses Derek goodbye. Kissing during the throes of heat is instinctual, even clinically indicated, but goodbye kisses aren’t for two strangers sharing a moment. They’re for two people who desperately wish to see each other again. 

Stiles thought the extra time with Derek would stop his APES, but the very thought of leaving Derek has his stomach clenching with imagined dread. He can’t fathom the agony of the few days he’ll have off before Derek’s debrief session. He knows it’s necessary. Derek is a client, not a lover, but Stiles’s inner alpha sure as fuck doesn’t know that.

After one last kiss, Stiles leaves Derek in the patient decompression area and drags himself to the locker room. He feels like he needs to sleep for a week, but he’s utterly sated. He can't drag his tired body home. In the end, Deaton has to offer him a vitamin shot, a re-hydration IV, and a ride home.

Stiles sleeps for nearly a day, but wakes up touching himself, chasing the ghost of a scent so sweet it could only be a dream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Skypes with this best bro, Scott.

“Dude, I’m sorry I missed our Skype date yesterday,” Stiles grumbles. He’s still groggy and disoriented, just not groggy and disoriented enough to ignore Scott's twenty texts and five voice mails. Ever since Allison popped the question, Scott has become more and more crazed with wedding planning. He even seems to have forgotten that three-day absences aren’t exactly uncommon in Stiles’s line of work.

“I’m supposed to be picking a color scheme,” Scott whines. “Like I have a clue. Why can’t Allison just pick what she wants?”

“Because you’re the omega,” Stiles reminds him. “Even though she’s surprisingly progressive, considering her family background, Allison isn’t going to step on your toes when it comes to your special day.”

“It isn’t stepping on my toes! I mean, I want her to step on them! I really don’t care about any of this.”

“That’s why you’re spending god knows how much on a wedding planner.” Stiles suspects they’re paying the guy more for one wedding than Stiles makes in six months.

“Yeah and he’s totally useless. He takes care of all the arrangements, but the arrangements aren’t the hard part. It’s the _choices_ I need to be rescued from. All he does is demand that I make more of them! I don’t know the difference between cream and champagne! I didn’t even know that those _were_ colors. I thought we were talking about beverages.”

“If you don’t know, then pick something at random. If Allison doesn’t like it, you know she’ll say something.”

“You’re right. It’s just that all of this wedding stuff is more for Allison’s family and business networking than it is for me. If I were in charge, it’d be a potluck in the woods with some family and friends. I need you to help me keep it in perspective.”

“Totally. I’ll be like your wedding Yoda. Your wedding Yoda, I will be.”

“What?”

“Have you _still_ not seen Star Wars?”

“Is there a wedding in that?”

“Jesus Christ, Scott, how are you still my best friend?”

“Dude, we’re brothers now. I can not watch Star Wars as much as I want and you can’t get rid of me.” 

They have a moment of silence to contemplate exactly how awesome that is. Their parents have been married for four years and it still makes Stiles’s heart skip a beat to know that Scott is family. Well, he was always family, but now they’ve got it on paper.

“Hey, where were you anyway?” Scott continues. Stiles can hear him fiddling with something in the background. “I left you like an obscene number of messages.”

“I was busy fucking literally the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I mean, I can’t imagine anyone less in need of _paid_ sex . I swear to god, if a mad scientist wanted to _weaponize_ attractiveness, his evil creation would look like this guy.”

“Aren’t you supposed to keep your client details, like, confidential?” Scott is such a choir boy sometimes. He just lives to rain his rule-abiding little raindrops all over Stiles’s awesome, sarcastic parade.

“I’m not violating HIPAA by telling you my newest client is extremely attractive. I’m not even going to tell you what he looks like. It might implode your brain cavity.”

“I think you’re exaggerating.” _Of course_ Stiles is exaggerating. That’s what he does. Scott should know this by now.

“Seriously, I’m soooo not. I promise you, Scott. Here’s a breach of confidentiality: if you’re walking down the street and you see an omega so attractive it makes you want to vomit, I will have fucked that guy.”

“Allison is so attractive she makes me want to vomit,” Scott says, because he's so gone that he couldn’t think about actuary tables without relating them back to Allison. Stiles just hopes he never tells her she's vomit-worthy. Knowing Scott, he'd probably think it's romantic.

“Allison is rippeded and cute and very objectively attractive,” Stiles hedges, because he can admit that when it comes to hotness in an alpha, Allison has Stiles beat. Hell, Stiles would be lining up to date her if Scott hadn’t gotten there first. Scotty boy did well for himself. “Allison is a great girl, but this guy is just _hot_.”

“Allison is--”

“You know what? Forget it. I’m the one with the interesting work stories, but it all relates back to Allison. Allison, Allison, Allison.” Stiles tries not to be resentful -- he really does -- but it’s hard to hear Scott bitch about the little chinks in his otherwise picture-perfect life. Scott can complain when he knows what it's like to come home to an empty apartment after three straight days of meaningless sex. Scott gets Allison’s amazing backrubs and Stiles doesn’t even have a cat to care if he lives or dies.

“I’m sorry,” Scott replies, sounding so distant on the other end of the line that he might as well be on another planet. “It’s just with the wedding planning and school and everything going on I-- I envy you. You get to have sex for a living. With really hot guys, apparently.”

Stiles rolls his eyes even though Scott isn’t around to see it. “First of all, the wedding is _next year_. Second, all you need is for Allison to say ‘I do.’ You don’t actually care about the rest and you know it. And finally, there’s nothing to envy. You’re about to get married and about to become a doctor and I’m twenty-five, single, and selling my body for a living.”

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice is slow, calming, devoid of their usual banter. “Does it really bother you? I thought this was what you wanted.”

“It is. I love my job. I get to help people. With my dick. What’s not to love?” Stiles is aware that his protests sound hollow and insincere, but Scott is a good enough friend not to call him on it.

“You have a job you love, but that’s not all there is to life,” Scott points out. That perceptive little shit.

“You’re right. I guess this client--”

“The hot one,” Scott interrupts, still joking.

“Yeah, the hot one,” Stiles affirms, a little more serious than he intends. “He has me thinking. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex with someone whose insurance company wasn’t paying me. I don’t mind that it’s clinical. Some days I even like that about it. But I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out - not just on sex without a doctor checking in on us, or even on a mate bond, but on _dating_. Normally my patients are people who I wouldn’t be attracted to in real life, but if I met this guy the normal way, I might’ve dated him. I mean, he’s pants-shittingly attractive, not to mention smart, interesting, even nice in his own scowling, resentful kind of way. But instead of running into him in a coffee shop or even online, like a normal person, I end up fucking him through his heat before we even shake hands. Now, once he’s done with the debrief, I might never even see him again. It’s fucked up when you think about it.”

“Wow, you really like this guy, huh? Wait, I thought you were gay.”

“What?” Stiles rolls his eyes even though he knows Scott can’t see him. He really wishes Scott were here instead of a coast away. “Hey, genius, I have sex with omegas for a living. What part of that says gay to you? I’m bisexual, thus far homoromantic. But to be honest, just because 95% of the people I’ve ever been attracted to happen to be alphas, doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t give up alphas altogether for the _right_ omega.”

“And this guy is the right omega? You should go for it, bro!”

“Pfft. He’s a patient. And obviously not on the market.”

“But if he were--”

“If he were, he’d still have more issues than Sports Illustrated. Not to mention being so far out of my league I could cry. He’s more a reminder of the kind of person I might like having sex with if I wasn’t so burned out on sticking my dick in things. Jackson is already pregnant with his and Danny’s first. Erica and Boyd are married. You and Allison aren’t far behind and Lydia and Cora are only waiting because Lydia wants to see how opulent you make your wedding and triple it. I’m the only one in our group who’s still single.”

“Yeah, but you’re not even sure you want the whole marriage and kids thing.”

Stiles sighs, thinking about how desperately he wanted to pump Derek full of his seed. He spent hours rubbing Derek's belly like there was a even a chance he could knock Derek up between the condom and the vas deferens device. “I think my biological clock has finally started to tick, dude. The real question is: what kind of omega would put up with an alpha who helps other omegas through their heats for a living?”

“Boyd lets Erica do it,” Scott points out.

“Boyd is an alpha, too. That’s different.”

“How is it different?” Scott demands. “Aren’t you the one who’s all on his high horse about queer rights and gay bonding and gender equality?”

“Just because gay bonds have the 'same love,' at least according to Macklemore, doesn’t mean they've got the same chemical reactions. It's Heat Therapy 101: no bonding pheromones allowed. You're the one who's studying to be an OBGYN. You should know as well as I do that if I get an omega, I'm out of a job."

"Um..." Scott tries, but Stiles doesn't have the patience to hear Scott defend his career choices. "Besides, I don’t think even Boyd, the patron saint of job-related polyamory, will be able to stand his wife's lifestyle once they have a family.”

“Okay. Then find something else to do part time so you have another skill for when you _do_ want to bond. You don’t work that many days each month. You could swing it.”

“Dude, I’ve explained this to you. Just because I’m not in med school like you doesn’t mean I’m not busy. I work 15 heat days a month. Add in recovery days, client induction, debriefs, paperwork, credentialing, private consultations, running seminars, and staff meetings … that’s not that much free time!”

“Reduce your heat days then. I read on the internet that $1,500 a day is like the going rate for heat therapy. You could make enough to cover yourself for the month in like three days!”

“Yeah, except that money also goes toward doctors, staff, licensing, malpractice insurance, and the fucking shareholders.”

“You have a big client base now. Couldn’t you scoop some of them for private treatment? Allison said a lot of you guys do that.”

Stiles sighs. Scott just doesn’t get it. “There’s a reason why we have all that strict procedure, Scott. Otherwise it’s just prostitution. And even if I did want to whore myself out, almost all my clients are insurance cases. If it’s not a licensed heat practice, the insurance doesn’t pay and my clients can’t afford to pay out of pocket.”

“There must be something--”

“It’s fine, Scott,” Stiles ends up saying. 

He knows that his life sucks and that something is going to have to give, but he can’t take any more of Scott’s misguided attempts at advice. Scott might want to be an OBGYN one day, He even interned at the clinic, but that doesn’t mean he knows anything about what heat therapy actually entails from the alpha's point of view. He’s been with Allison since they were fifteen and, even though she worked heat therapy part-time after college, Scott had buried his head in the sand. Back then, Stiles let him get away with it. Now it's starting to sting that Scott doesn't care about the job that is basically Stiles's life since he moved away.

"It's not fine, Stiles. You--"

Stiles snaps, “I’ll figure something out.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Scott doesn’t sound convinced. “So, Allison wants me to wear a white gown for the wedding.”

“What? Is she crazy? She _has_ seen you eat, right?” It’s so much easier, returning to their easy, playful banter. Less satisfying, but easier.

“That’s what I said! And then she got this twinkle in her eye like she might just not let me eat anything at my own wedding!”

Stiles laughs hard enough at Scott’s petulant tone that he almost forgets the sad state of his life for a little while.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek discuss Derek's treatment plan and move forward with his treatment.

“Isaac should have already emailed you the post-treatment survey and the link to the AAAHT therapist review page,” Stiles tells Derek. He’s trying to stick to the familiar script, but it’s almost impossible when Derek is sitting there in all his glory. He’s wearing a suit, well tailored to show off his narrow waist but with an alpha-style collar. Stiles has to look down at the chart to avoid distraction. “These debrief sessions are part of a omega-centered approach to heat planning. We’ll discuss what worked and what didn’t, what you’d like to do next time, if there _will be_ a next time, et cetera.”

Derek gives him that serious, contemplative stare, like the next words out of his mouth might be a death sentence. Of course Derek’s not going to volunteer anything. Whatever intimacy they may have shared post-heat has evaporated now that they’re patient and therapist again.

“Talk to me, Derek. I promise that I’m rubber and you’re glue. Scratch that; I’m just rubber. You can be as sticky or as not-sticky as you want. The point is, even a negative response will bounce off me. I’ve heard plenty of them. What’s important is that we sort out anything problematic about this heat and find a way to deliver a better one next time, even if it means switching therapists.” Stiles hopes Derek doesn’t want to switch, though. He’s proud of the fact that he was able to get Derek to still enjoy himself, in spite of his initial reluctance. And, if he’s being honest, he’d jump at the chance to have sex with Derek again.

“I don’t want a different therapist,” Derek blurts out. 

Stiles knows he’s grinning like a loon, but it’s more than just professional pride. The alpha in him is almost purring.

“That’s good. I’m glad, I mean. I thought we worked it, but you never know. Of course, wanting the same alpha for next time doesn’t mean that it was a great experience. Picking the right alpha is just a tiny part of a successful heat. And you came to me because of trouble with the idea of heat itself, so I guess I have to ask: how was it? I mean, you seemed to enjoy yourself, but what do I know? I’m not--” 

“It was better than I thought it would be,” Derek fills in, finally taking mercy on them both to end Stiles’s babbling. “I thought--” He looks away. Stiles wants to cup his cheek and make him look Stiles in the eye and tell him how good an alpha he was. “I guess I thought I’d have to force everything. It came more naturally once we got going.”

Stiles nods. Usually he’s helping patients who might hurt themselves if they follow their natural instincts. It had been great to help Derek tap into those instincts rather than soften them. “So you had a good time?”

Derek stares at his kneecaps, as though the pattern of lint on his pants holds all the answers. “I had as good a time as I could have hoped for.”

“Is there anything I can do to make your experience better next time? Maybe a change of venues?”

Derek chuckles a little, undoubtedly remembering Stiles’s complaints about twigs poking him in the balls. “I can see the advantages of a real bed.”

“But?”

“But I looked at the pictures. Do all your other suites have those restraints in them?”

Stiles is confused at first, but then he realizes what Derek is talking about. “Oh, I could see how you'd think that, but none of those are restraints. A lot of it is assistive technology - stuff for patients with decreased mobility to hold onto or use to help secure themselves. Nothing is meant to hold a patient against their will. Since you very obviously don’t need any of that, we can just book you into one of the plain suites we use for the heat-matching service.”

“Are you sure one will be available? My heat hasn’t normalized yet.”

“We’re a big clinic. If you're on top of your shit and call on time, we’ll be able to accommodate you. Now, next question: what about my behavior during the heat? I realize that we didn’t exactly follow your rules, but I was taking my cues from you. We can make a stricter heat plan if you’d like - either tighter ground rules or an hour-by-hour schedule.”

Derek shakes his head vehemently. “No. I’m happy with what we did. I trust you now. It shouldn’t be a problem with you.”

Stiles smiles. Most of his patients like him. A lot of them request him, but it feels good to have someone with so many obvious trust issues judge him worthy. Also, a part of him craves _Derek’s_ approval, because he genuinely likes Derek. His life would feel less like an empty box if more people he genuinely likes liked him back. 

“That’s awesome, Derek! I mean, it’s going to be awesome, clinically. Omegas experience less heat complications with partners they trust.”

“I trust you, but I don’t know about a different therapist.”

Stiles winces. A lot of first-time patients want to stick with their initial therapist, which causes scheduling conflicts. It always takes convincing to get a patient comfortable with whomever’s on call. “About that. Unless we induce your heat, I can’t guarantee my availability.” He _wants_ to keep treating Derek, but he knows the reality of his business. “All our senior therapists are just as qualified and as professional as I am, if not more. You’ll be in good hands with any one of them. Trust me when I say you can trust them.”

“Then we can induce it,” Derek insists. Stiles remembers how terrified he’d been of exactly that just days earlier. No matter how good their sexual chemistry, there’s no way Stiles can recommend Derek induce just so they’re paired together.

“That is your choice and, as a professional, I’ll facilitate it. But as someone who likes and actually cares about you, there’s no way I can recommend that. It’s painful. You’ll be a in a daze. And if we get the hormone dosage wrong, you might not even remember your heat.”

“I know,” Derek whispers.

Of course, Stiles thinks. Of course whatever happened to Derek involved a drugged heat, because Derek seems to have gotten the shitty end of all things.

“Well, then you know that having sex with someone slightly less awesome than me is a small price to pay. In fact, it says here on your chart that one of your therapeutic goals is to normalize your cycle. Inducing heat will only screw that up.”

“I want my heat with you.” It’s strange, Stiles muses, that Derek can seem both timid and like a man who’s far too used to getting what he wants.

“Sorry, dude, I’m totally on board with that, but I have other patients I have to take. I can’t just sit around and wait for your call. Clinic rules.”

“Then let me book all your heat days until my cycle normalizes.”

“You know that’s like $1,500 a day, fifteen days a month for however many months it’ll take your cycle to normalize.”

“My family owns a Fortune 1000 company,” Derek replies stoically. “It won’t be a problem. I can do a private hire if you’d like. Maybe not for quite as much. Let’s say a $10,000 a month retainer, plus a $2,000 bonus for each actual heat day.”

Stiles gulps. That’s a lot of money. It’s exactly the kind of money he needs to transition to a different line of work. Hell, he could save up enough seed capital to pay the licensing and insurance fees on his own company. Stiles has always chafed under the clinic’s business model: high-returns from insured patients doing in-house therapy. Stiles would rather teach clients skills to liberate themselves from the medical system. 

With Derek's money he could open a clinic that focuses on training of voluntary heat partners. He could sell and install special equipment for in-home use and send consultants to supervise heats. That way, he’d rarely have to service a heat again.

The problem is that he’d have to work for Derek for a while before he could earn enough. Heat cycle normalization is unpredictable. There's a chance Derek could normalize fast and leave Stiles unemployed. There's no guarantee the clinic would take him back.

“And once your cycle normalizes?” Stiles asks, because if Derek wanted to keep Stiles on for just his heat, depending on the cycle, that might still be enough to make a living.

“I’m having an oophorectomy,” Derek replies, like he’s discussing the weather, not hacking his ovaries out.

“Oh,” Stiles says. Because, wow. Stiles’s dreams of continued employment aside, that’s serious. Not only does it mean no more heats, but early menopause, osteoporosis, increased mortality, higher chances of mental disorders. Derek is only 32. Stiles skims back through the chart, but there’s just a whole bunch of ‘nos’ on his medical form. “Did we maybe not get a complete copy of your health records? Sometimes with complex cases, your GP doesn’t have everything. Do you have a separate oncologist?”

“I don’t have cancer,” Derek replies. “It’s an elective procedure.”

Signing up for all those side effects without the risk of cancer is just plain crazy, as far as Stiles is concerned. But then again, ‘sane’ is probably pushing it for Derek, all things considered. “If you don’t mind me asking, why would you elect that?”

“I _do_ mind you asking.” Derek scowls and sinks back even farther into the couch. 

“Fair enough. But if there is a medical cause, we need to know it. I’ll have to ask Dr. Deaton if there’s anything we need to coordinate for the oophorectomy, like timing your heat cycle. In fact, I’m not sure going off suppressants is even what doctors recommend.”

Derek sighs, clearly uncomfortable sharing any information whatsoever. “It’s not for me. It’s for my sister.”

“What?”

“She’s gay and an alpha. I’m the only surviving omega in the family. She wants me to freeze some eggs before the procedure in case she and her partner want to use them later.”

“And you have to go off suppressants and have your heat cycle normalize before you can start taking the IVF drugs. Got it. You know, that’s exactly the kind of medical information we need to know, as your _medical_ providers.”

Derek grumbles, even though he obviously knows that he should have told this to Deaton during his medical screening. 

“Now that I know heat cycle normalization is your priority, there are a few things I can recommend to speed the process along.”

Derek leans forward, now more interested than uncomfortable. “Really?”

“An omega’s heat cycle normalizes faster in the presence of a pair-bond. What would take at least a year under normal clinical procedure can take a few as five months if you find yourself a partner.”

Derek downright scowls.

“Which I take it you have no interest in doing. That’s fine. It'll cost you, but since you’ve already made it clear that money is no object, it won’t be a problem to fake a mate bond. For, you know, biological purposes.”

“What does that mean?”

“To do the bare minimum, you'd have to use the same alpha for all your heats, keep his smell around, see him on a regular basis … you get my drift. Those shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, you can make him pre-wear your clothes and sleep in his dirty sheets for a lot of the smell stuff.”

Derek nods. 

“That stuff may or may not form a pair-bond. If you want a guarantee, experts agree you have to bone the guy outside of heat, preferably without a condom.” Stiles tries not to think about how good it would feel to do all that to Derek. Hell, it’s not a stretch, since he’s the one who already got the ball rolling. It’s just a risk for Stiles, depending on how long it takes for Derek’s heat to normalize.

Derek looks apprehensive, but he motions for Stiles to continue. 

“I can understand if that scares you, Derek, but testing is very reliable, especially when partners don’t have a history of unprotected sex.”

“That’s fine. What else?”

“There’s also a simulated mating bite, which can be done in the presence of a doctor. It’s horribly awkward, but go professionalism, yay!”

“You’ve done this before?” Derek asks, sounding perturbed.

“Not personally,” Stiles replies. “The clinic offers the service, but never lets any of the senior staff do it. All of that stuff simulates a bond in the alpha as well. It triggers bonding pheromones that make servicing other omegas hard. The clinic can’t decommission one of its senior therapists for five months just for a single client.”

“$120,000,” Derek says.

“What?”

“I’ll pay you $120,000 to simulate a bond with me. That should cover your expenses and give you enough to live on if the clinic won’t hire you back afterwards.”

“Jesus, Derek. That’s a lot of money.” Stiles gulps. “Are you sure you wouldn’t just rather get a boyfriend? I mean, look at you. You’d have to scour the Earth to find an alpha who wouldn’t be willing to do all that for you for free.”

Derek shakes his head, taking Stiles’s hands in his. “No. I don’t want a boyfriend. I want you.”

Stiles still doesn’t feel right, taking that much money for something he'd willingly give Derek, if they were dating. But if Derek can pay, his money will go towards helping Stiles and a lot of his clients achieve their dreams. “Okay,” he reaches out a hand to shake on it.

“Great. You’ll hear from one of my lawyers then.”

Three days later, Stiles does. And he does not at all enjoy the creepy, calm presence of Marin Morrell. According to Morrell, Derek wishes to remain anonymous (though she’s presumably done a background check on Stiles). 

Against all odds, the plan works in Stiles's favor. He'll live in a monitored apartment owned by Derek’s company for a year, even if his services are no longer required. Derek will come over a minimum of five days a week for at least three hours a day and Stiles will scent mark his clothes and sheets. They will have sex at least once a week and Stiles will be on call for all Derek’s heats. 

Stiles will be like a kept boy or a modern day sex slave, but he can’t argue with the bottom line. He won’t even have to pay his apartment or groceries, which means it'll be almost pure profit. All he has to do is make himself available for cuddling during Derek's scant free time. And have some mind-blowingly amazing sex every now and then. How easy is that?

***

Derek shows up one day after a bunch of nameless goons move all Stiles’s earthly possessions into a spacious loft in downtown SF. It’s almost four times the size of Stiles’s cramped Oakland studio. Not a single thing Stiles owns looks nice enough for the bleakly modern space, so everything except his clothes and books end up in storage. In fact, in his graphic Ts, ratty jeans, and flannel, Stiles himself doesn't match.

“Do you like it?” Derek asks. He actually looks like he wants Stiles’s approval, so Stiles doesn't admit that he liked his old place better. He was at home in the hodgepodge of random posters, Craigslist furniture, and Christmas lights. It had _character_.

“That bed is like sleeping on a pile of angel wings,” Stiles says. He would honestly trade all the homey comfort in the world for that amazing king sized mattress and the privilege to fuck Derek into it. “I mean, it’s covered in like a million scratchy throw pillows, but beneath lays the new love of my life.”

“I can get the decorator back if you don’t like the pillows,” Derek replies. "I think they're scratchy because they're recycled. My decorator specializes in green furnishing."

“Dude, I stuffed them all in the closet,” Stiles shrugs. “Nobody should ever call a decorator on my behalf. This place is nicer than any place I’ve ever lived and probably ever will live. It doesn’t seem fair to complain. That bed, though. God, that bed!”

Derek grins. “It’s the same kind of mattress I have at home. Since I’m going to have to sleep on it, at least during my heat, I figured I’d splurge.”

Stiles doesn’t even know what the world ‘splurge’ must mean to Derek, but he’ll take it. “Trust me, I’m very appreciative. Can’t wait to break that bad boy in.”

Derek flushes in embarrassment. He ducks Stiles’s hands when he reaches out for him. “Is there anything else you want? I saw you have an Xbox. I can have them put in a Playstation and a Wii, too. And I didn’t know if you wanted to cook. Aiden got the basics, but let me know if you’re missing anything.” He’s almost babbling, much to Stiles’s dismay.

“Dude, seriously, you’ve done more than enough. I cannot afford to get used to these standards of living.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I literally live like I’m still in college. I have the illegal hotplate to prove it.”

“Okay,” Derek agrees. 

The awkward silence stretches. Stiles longs for the way it was during Derek’s heat, when they’d cuddle up and talk about everything and nothing.

“So, um, I brought a bunch of my movies over here. Since I know you’re a Star Wars fan, I thought we could watch the Empire Strikes Back. You have no idea how stoked I am to have a friend who doesn’t stare at me like a lobotomized deer whenever I bring up the power of the force.”

“Okay,” Derek says again. He’s hunched in on himself and unnervingly still. 

Stiles sighs. Maybe he overstepped; Derek is his boss, not his friend. “Look, Derek, we’re going to have to spend a lot of time together if you want this to work. Now, you’re paying me, so if you want to sit together in awkward silence for three hours, I can do that. You call the shots. I just thought, since you were a fan, you might want to watch.”

“You don’t want to have sex?”

Stiles realizes his mistake: he shouldn’t have joked about breaking the bed in. Derek thinks he wants to have sex right away and there’s no way Derek is ready for that. Stiles had been planning on some bro time to keep their scents commingled, but now he’s made Derek too nervous for even that.

“I’m sorry, baby, not tonight. I have a headache.” Stiles winks. “But seriously, I’ve been reading up on heat normalization and nothing says we have to get to the out-of-heat sex this instant. C’mon, man, take a load off,” Stiles implores as he collapses back onto the exquisite leather sofa. He pats the space next to him until Derek settles beside him, stiff as a board. “Let’s give ourselves the night off. Tomorrow we can sort out the whens and hows of the sex thing. I can feel how tense you are from over here. You’re not in a good place for it, so we’ll just focus on relaxing, getting you used to me and this space. Get our smell on.”

“Okay,” Derek says, not relaxing in the slightest.

“So, Empire Strikes Back?”

Derek nods.

It’s painfully awkward at first. Derek sits straight-backed, with his hands braced on his knees, way over on the far corner of the couch. But Star Wars works its magic, because by the time Stiles is screaming “Lucas, your incest is showing!” at the screen, Derek is laughing along with him. They’ve both seen the movie a hundred times, it turns out, so they talk through most of it. Stiles can offer running commentary on just about anything and Derek takes ridiculous offense to any and all plot holes. "Come on," he gripes. "How long did the Millennium Falcon have to be hiding in that asteroid field for Luke to become a Jedi Master with Yoda? Aren't they starving by now?" 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Why has nobody tried to eat Chewbacca?”

“That’s racist. Why has Chewbacca not tried to eat the princess?”

They both chuckle and Stiles nestles into the veritable furnace next to him. At some point, without even realizing it, Stiles ended up curled against Derek’s side with an arm wrapped around him.

Once the credits roll, Stiles is loathe to move. Derek’s chest is warm and firm and it feels good to be protected, cared for. It’s been a long time since Stiles had that. If he's honest, there hasn’t been anyone he truly cared for since Heather. But then that drunk driver…. Stiles turns farther into Derek’s soft gray sweater in an attempt to hide the fact he’s tearing up. It’s stupid. It was a long time ago. Stiles shouldn’t still be so affected by it. Thank god, Derek doesn’t seem to notice. They sit in silence until the final Lucasfilm banner displays and Stiles has recovered himself.

“So what now?” Derek asks, staring at Stiles like he's accusing him of something. Stiles isn’t sure he’s prepared to spend three hours a day with that kind of intensity.

“Well, we’ve put off the sex talk, so how about Call of Duty?”

“I don’t know how to play.”

“I can show you. If you want.”

Derek is back to his usual non-verbal state when he retrieves the controllers. Stiles misses his warmth almost instantly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek have sex outside of heat for the first time.

They resolve to have sex on Saturday afternoons. Derek usually spends Saturday morning at the office but never works Sunday, so they’ll both have a day off afterwards.

Derek shows up twenty minutes earlier than what Aiden marked on Stiles’s online calendar. He’s wearing sweatpants, cowboy boots, a chocolate-stained Marshall School of Business sweatshirt, and a homespun beanie.

“Really?” Stiles demands. “You show up dressed like a freshman going through a breakup and you’re still more attractive than 99% of the population. How is that even fair?”

Derek's nervous tension breaks into a disarmed grin. “I figure you’re a sure thing.”

“Oh, you could dress like my grandoma and I’d still be a sure thing. Doesn’t mean I won’t make fun of you for it. I’m here to take care of your body, not your ego. Now, come on in. I have some wine in the fridge, a whole Marvin Gaye album on the ipod, and a tub of Cool Whip in the fridge. I’m all ready for some smooth romance.”

“Is that what I’m paying you for?” Derek jokes.

Stiles leads Derek through the loft and around the neat little divider to the bed (recently cleaned of Dorito debris). Derek stands as far away as he can without technically leaving the “bedroom.” Clearly he hasn’t followed Stiles’s command to do a relaxing activity beforehand. Or maybe he just never relaxes.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “you don’t seem immediately down to do the dirty. So we have a few options here. We can try to relax you a little more. I can give you a massage. We can do some deep breathing exercises. You can have a little wine or pop a Xanax if you have one. Or we can hang out some, distract ourselves a bit so that it feels a little more natural. Or, we can suck up the awkwardness and try to power through. It’s up to you.”

“Power through,” Derek grunts. It doesn’t surprise Stiles in the slightest.

“Okay, power through it is. I am going to have to insist that you relax, though. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m all about safety. It’s a thing, for professional, licensing, all around not being a dick reasons.”

“I don’t _want_ you to hurt me either.” Derek lets the ‘but I’ll accept it if you have to’ go implied.

“Well, tough cookies, I’m not hurting you. It’s a non-negotiable, terms of service, you had better obey me or else requirement. Now, if you would be so kind, strip.”

Derek chuckles. He isn’t shy about removing his clothes -- another strange piece in the puzzle that is Derek. Stiles would be lying if said he’s not fascinated. 

“Wow, just for the record, I’m in awe of your sixpack.” He’s already seen plenty of Derek naked, of course. But that was at the height of a pheromone haze. Stiles’s body was primed to find almost anything attractive; they call it ‘heat goggles’ for a reason. Derek, of course, looks even better with the goggles off. In heat, he’d been a work of art, relaxed and sweaty, desperate for it. But there’s something disarming about him now. He's flayed open and vulnerable, drenched in sunlight and staring at Stiles with wide green eyes.

Derek shrugs. “I work out.”

Stiles snorts at the absurdity of it, because what is the point of modesty if you look like _that_? “Lie down with me for a minute.” Stiles flops down onto the bed and Derek stiffly lowers himself next to him. “So, anyway, game plan: we need one. I’m not going to lie; the best way to get you relaxed enough for penetration is foreplay. Even better, an orgasm. If it's up to me, I’d like to start by eating you out, with some hand action. You can be on top for that if you want. I’ve been told that I have a good face for riding. How do you feel about that?”

Derek makes a face. It would be hilarious seeing someone else look so sour over receiving an orgasm, but this is no laughing matter. Stiles keeps his amusement to himself. 

“Okay. I’m trying to be sensitive here. For cases when someone has experienced trauma--” Derek flinches but doesn’t verbalize his protest. “If insurance or a legal settlement or the county is paying, I get a patient writeup from a therapist. Your lawyer was adamant that I would not receive one for you. That’s fine, but for both our safety, you need to tell me when something is scary and triggering. I need to know when it’s an annoyance because you'd rather not be having sex at all verses when it's something serious. So, receiving pleasure: what’s the beef? Communicate me.”

Derek pulls the sheet up over himself. “I don’t have any trauma about receiving pleasure. I, um, I haven’t ridden anyone’s face, so I don’t think it’s possible to have baggage about it.”

“Hey, people have triggers for all kinds of reasons. It doesn’t have to be the exact same action that hurt you to spark a flashback. You’re allowed to feel bad about anything. I mean, freak out about Mickey Mouse. It’s all good. Safe space here.”

“Trauma isn’t the problem.”

Derek makes up for his unattainable beauty and perfect dry humor by literally being the most frustrating non-communicator ever. Stiles wonders if Derek is the universe’s way of punishing him for moving to the city, becoming a sex worker, and abandoning his apa. “Okay. If being traumatized by pleasure isn’t the problem, then what is?”

“It’s not fair.”

“What isn’t? Is this some kind of woe is me thing? Because I’m okay with that, but it’d be really helpful if you clued me in to the source of the woe.”

“It’s not fair to _you_ ,” Derek grumbles. He’s bunched the sheets in his lap, wrinkling them in his tight grasp. 

“Not fair to me? Me eating you out, you mean?”

Derek nods. He’ll only look at Stiles through his eyelashes and he seems put off by the casual language. _Good,_ Stiles thinks, _let him be uncomfortable._ Derek needs help, but he’s insulated by his money and his army of lawyers and the sister who is obviously enabling his denial. If he won’t see a goddamned shrink, then Stiles will do what he can, even though psychology has never been his forte.

“Okay, you are way, way off, there buddy. You are wrong. And for so many reasons.”

Derek grunts, looking skeptical. Derek likes to be challenged, Stiles realizes. If he's a successful businessman, he’s used to a pithy, argumentative atmosphere. It’s only when it comes to his sexuality, for whatever reason, that he’s habituated to silence.

“Don’t believe me? Fine. I’ll list off the many reasons you are wrong. First, you’re paying me. You’re paying me a lot to have sex with you the way you need. You’re paying me to put you first and that means when it comes to sex between us, there’s no need to worry about fair. Fair is the money you fairly exchange with me. Second, I’m here as a medical professional. Do no harm or whatever. I'm ethically bound not to hurt you and if I penetrate you when you’re this tense, I _will_ hurt you. If you really are fine with pleasure, I’d rather give you an orgasm than have to drug you.”

Derek shudders. That’s right, he already showed fear of being drugged. Stiles is putting together a picture of what might’ve happened to Derek and it’s not a picture he likes.

“Yeah, we’re definitely not giving you any drugs. Which brings me to my third point; when it comes to heat normalization, the omega orgasming is proven to help speed the process. That means that from a purely a therapeutic perspective, it’s better if you enjoy yourself. And finally, who in the hell says I’m not going to be ecstatic as fuck to eat you out?”

In truth, going down on an omega isn’t Stiles’s thing. He gets a little claustrophobic doing it sometimes -- trapped between someone’s thighs where it’s hot and moist and musky. Then there’s the fact that he’s mostly gay and keeps his sex with omegas confined to their heats; he’s just not practiced with it. But he looks at Derek and thinks about how nobody has probably ever cared about him the way he deserves. Maybe it's a little unprofessional, but Stiles wants nothing more than to make him _enjoy_ this.

“Fine,” Derek agrees. He throws the sheet off, more dramatic than his usual subtle grumpiness. “Have at it.”

Stiles grins wickedly before lowering his head and licking a long line up from Derek’s hole all the way to the tip of his cock. Derek lets out a strangled shout and reflexively buries his hands in Stiles’s hair. _Hell yes,_ Stiles thinks. As Stiles proceeds to open him up with his tongue, Derek makes the sweetest little whimpers, mouth half open and eyes hooded. His hips move restlessly and his grip on Stiles’s scalp softens and tightens as Stiles takes him apart. Derek was fucking built for this and it’s a crying shame that whatever happened to him has prevented him from doing this on a daily basis. If he were Stiles’s omega, he’d sure as shit be moaning like this every single day. 

Stiles applies himself diligently, whirling his tongue around Derek’s puckered rim and licking a palm to tease Derek’s cock. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on without heat pheromones in the mix, but his training is always at the back of his mind. His instincts clamor for him to just shove Derek back against the headboard and pound into him, but Stiles knows better. Control, that’s what Derek needs. No, it’s what Derek _deserves_. It’s about the only thing that Stiles can do that’s worthy of him.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes wild as he leans up just enough to look down at Stiles. “Shit, I’m gonna. I’m going to come.”

Stiles nods and swallows him down. The hands in his hair dig in, just the right side of painful. Luckily for Derek, Stiles has perfected the art of shoving things down his throat. One bored summer week when Scott was in the hospital for asthma, Stiles explored the phallic content of the veggie drawer to much success. 

“Sorry,” Derek manages, once he’s recovered enough to open his eyes. He pets at Stiles with an awkward, almost non-existent brush of fingertips.

“Dude, you so do not have to apologize. A screaming orgasm was totally the point. Mission Accomplished! 10 stars, would definitely recommend.”

“It doesn’t taste bad?”

Stiles snorts. “Spluge is not the best taste in the world, no, but it’s not bad. Here, wanna try?” He pulls himself up Derek’s body and kisses him sloppily, making sure that Derek gets a taste of the cum drying at the corner of his lips.

Derek pushes him off, but he’s smiling and blissed out. Stiles runs a firm hand down his chest so Derek has plenty of time to guess his intention. When he fingers Derek, he’s hot and wet and open. Derek moans but keeps his eyes closed. He’s smiling.

“Are you sensitive?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs. “Not too sensitive.”

“Perfect.” Stiles keeps fingering him until he finds the p-spot, pressing down, relentless. Derek whimpers. “You are primed and ready to go, buddy. Now, what’s the game plan? What are you thinking on positions? Feeling up to riding cowboy? Or are we feeling the post-orgasmic vegetative state coming on?”

“She used to take me from behind,” Derek murmurs. His breath hitches as Stiles massages his prostate. “She’d grab my chin and pull me around so I’d have to contort to kiss her.”

“Okay.” Stiles did not expect to get that much information, but he’s happy that Derek feels comfortable enough to open up. He wants Derek to feel in control. He should feel like he can get away at any time. Still, Stiles doesn’t want Derek to have to do all the work. If he leaves Derek in charge of pleasuring himself, he probably won’t even bother.

Stiles goes to the closet and digs through the mountain of decorative throws until he can find his two therapy pillows. They’re burgundy colored wedges that slot together to form sort of a ramp with a raised plateau at the bottom. At the clinic, he uses them to help support omegas with mobility issues. Nothing says an alpha can’t use them, though. 

“What are you doing?” Derek grumbles. He eyes Stiles with such suspicion that Stiles can’t stop a strangled laugh. How can Derek be so hot and still look like Grumpy Cat? Stiles’s laughter just makes Derek scowl harder.

“ _I_ am putting my professional training to good use, my sour friend,” Stiles announces. He dumps the pillows next to Derek, who eyes them like feral beasts. He looks surprised when Stiles hops on, patting his lap for Derek to follow. “See, this way you get to be on top, but I still get enough leverage so I’m not just lying there like a dead fish.”

“Thanks for the sexy imagery,” Derek grunts, but he seems onboard with the idea. He kneels over Stiles, hesitating as he hovers above him. Stiles grabs some lube from a little pocket on the side of the wedge. Even though Derek is wet, Stiles wants to make this as comfortable as possible. 

“Stiles--” Derek’s eyes bore into him, pleading. They’ve done this already, plenty of times, but Derek was in heat. Still, even if Derek's only goal is to normalize his heat, Stiles has goals of his own. He wants Derek to get to a place where he feels comfortable enough to pursue what he needs from someone other than a professional. He won’t take mercy on Derek and initiate things the way he did the first time, not if it means Derek will never learn to take what he needs for himself.

Stiles palms Derek’s hip, staring up at him. “It’s your move, big guy. I'm not gonna do it for you.”

Instead of a slow sink downward, as Stiles expects, Derek leans forward for a kiss. It’s not professional, but, if he's being honest, nothing about this situation is. Stiles’s arms come up around Derek’s broad shoulders and Derek cups Stiles’s face, nipping at his lower lip. The kiss intensifies until Derek is undulating gently against him. Before Stiles even knows he’s done it, he’s reaching down to guide himself into his omega. Derek gives out a harsh sigh once he’s finally breached, a smug grin alighting his face.

Stiles moans dramatically, “you tricked me! You bastard!”

Derek hums in response, using the angle provided by the pillow to let gravity pull him down onto Stiles’s cock. It feels fucking fantastic. Stiles has never fucked an omega without a condom before, since all the omegas he’s ever been with were in heat. He’s a little glad that he hasn’t. He could get addicted to the feeling of Derek clenching tight around him, warm and wet and smooth. 

There are pheromones in the air, subtle signals instead of the choking perfume of heat.

Stiles was never good at the pheromone sensing portions of his field. He always figured it's because he’s mostly gay, but maybe it’s because he’s only ever had sex with omegas in heat rooms. The commingling scents of so many strange pairs form a disgusting soup that nags at his inner alpha. Now all he smells is the sweet, clean scent of him and Derek. It’s pure -- no suppressants, no condoms, no previous occupants, just alpha and omega blending together in perfect harmony.

Derek’s eyes are tearing up a little. He bites his lower lip. “I’m close,” he whispers, reverent.

Stiles pulls him in, ignoring Derek’s slow, steady rhythm and rutting up into him in a frenzy. Derek weighs more than Stiles, but Stiles’s hips lift him with ease. 

He's is embarrassed by the guttural grunt Derek forces out of him when he comes. But it's all worth it when he feels the warmth of Derek spilling between them. He can't help but be impressed that, as an omega, Derek is able to have two ejaculatory orgasms in such quick succession. 

Stiles hasn’t knotted, but Derek stays on top of him as he softens.

“That felt good.” Derek sounds in awe.

“Stand and deliver,” Stiles replies. “That’s my motto.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but only stretches languidly before curling up against Stiles’s chest. Even though Derek is a heavy weight above him and the pillow is a little awkward, they end up drifting off.

When Stiles wakes up, Derek is gone. _He’s paying you,_ Stiles reminds himself. _He doesn’t have to leave a note._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the "therapy" pillows Stiles is talking about: http://www.liberator.com/wedge-ramp-combo.html


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles works with Derek on his business plan.

Stiles soon realizes that having the entire day free is more a curse than a blessing. He’s been so busy for so long that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Derek’s PA, Aiden, keeps the fridge stocked and picks up clothes and bedding to help the olfactory adjustment. These indulgences mean Stiles doesn’t leave the apartment for the first three weeks. He watches all of Supernatural, beats Mass Effect, spends a whole day on Cracked.com, and even starts helping Scott with wedding planning.

“Are you supposed to make your wedding party’s ties match the dresses?” Stiles asks Derek while he’s looking through yet another blog. Derek is making leaps and bounds with the touching thing, which had been stiff and awkward at first. Now, he even lets Stiles tuck his feet under Derek's thighs while he sprawls out on the couch.

Derek turns to Stiles and raises his eyebrows. He's wearing those stupid glasses that manage to make him somehow, impossibly hotter. “Are you getting married?” It sounds like an accusation - like it wouldn’t be a perfectly valid life choice for Stiles to take this gig if he were engaged.

“No. I’m part of the omega’s party, but he promised I won’t have to wear a dress. I just trying to figure out if I have to wear a floral print tie. Maybe I should negotiate him down to a kilt."

“It’s traditional to have the omega's party in dresses and the alpha’s in suits, but each party should at least have a common theme. If you’re doing kilts, then everyone on your side should wear them.”

“Wow, aren’t you the expert,” Stiles remarks. “Though, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the kind of omega to have planned out his dream wedding.”

“At mine, my party wore purple and the alpha's party wore red,” Derek grits out.

“You were married?” To say he’s shocked would be an understatement. Stiles had never considered that Derek might have been married at some point. He not knowledgeable enough about heat biology to have been in a long term relationship, let alone having succumbed to the permanent tie.

“Briefly,” Derek replies. He’s so tense that Stiles is forced to pull his feet out from under his thighs. That is a clear invitation to never discuss the subject again.

“It’s not that I mind dresses,” Stiles blabbers. “I mean, I can rock one. I’ve got kind of that androgynous look, you know? Before I took your job, I used to always shower with those scent-canceling soaps after heats, so if I put one on I was like pure alpha bait.”

The look Derek gives him is scrutinizing before he nods to himself. 

“Picturing me in a dress?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a good picture?”

Derek rolls his eyes. Of course he isn’t going to answer. They’re not a couple. Derek isn’t even attracted to Stiles outside of heat. “You need to get out of the house.”

“What?”

“Aiden and the grocery man say you’re always here. You only shower right before I get here. I found Doritos in the sofa.”

“Dude, that would’ve happened no matter what. Doritos dust is a natural consequence of my presence.”

Derek grimaces. “Okay. Just find yourself a hobby. You’re going stir crazy.”

“Like you have a hobby,” Stiles accuses. Derek is here five nights a week, straight from work. 

“I don’t need a hobby. I have a job.”

Stiles snorts, because he’s pretty sure he’s heard that one before.

“Fine,” Derek grumbles. “I play golf on the weekends. And I read. Are you happy?”

“Not remotely, but that’s more respectable than playing Mass Effect for 20 hours straight, I guess.”

Derek sighs, turning to Stiles and fixing him with those sad green eyes and their calculating assessment. “You’re performing a paid service for me, but that doesn’t mean I want you to be unhappy doing it.”

“Awe, are you worried about me?”

Derek shrugs

“I’ll find something. Don’t worry. I just needed to relax a little. But that’s done. Tomorrow I’ll be productive. I promise.”

Derek nods and goes back to his work and Stiles goes back to his wedding blogs, but Stiles takes his words to heart. The next day, when he’s finished his breakfast of Doritos and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, he finds his way to the library. That night, Derek looks up from reading Dracula long enough to nod at Stiles’s giant stack of self-employment books.

Stiles stares at him covetously until Derek agrees to a Dracula movie marathon. 

***

Stiles gets bored with the California incorporation rules after a while. He learned about heat clinic licensing from the Student All-Volunteer Heat Sanctuary at Berkeley. But even with that knowledge, he’ll need to hire a lawyer for at least parts of establishing the company. He resolves to ask Derek about it, since he obviously has an army of lawyers at his disposal.

He should butter him up a little first, though, so Stiles prepares his grandmother’s pirogies and bigos. Stiles figures Derek and his ridiculous muscles will appreciate the heartier fare. Besides, even though Derek is paying Stiles to fuck him, there’s a part of Stiles that desperately wants to impress him.

Derek slams in the front door a little later than the schedule had announced, looking more frowney and stoic than usual. 

“What are you doing?” he asks when he catches Stiles in the kitchen flipping pirogies wearing his oma’s old apron. He looks like he’d seen a yeti, not an alpha making him dinner.

“I’m enriching uranium. What does it look like? I’m cooking for us.”

“You don’t have to do that!” Derek exclaims. “Didn’t Aiden bring over something?”

“I asked him to skip today, because I wanted to make something nice for you.” He gestures over to the table, which he’d set with the good china and an orchid he saw at the farmer’s market. He was tempted to do candles, but he doesn’t want to give Derek the wrong impression.

“Oh,” Derek replies, looking at the orchid like it might spring off the table and bite him. “Stiles, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about our relationship--”

“I’m not! Trust me, I’m not. I actually wanted to talk business with you, but I know you wanted discretion, so it’s not like I can take you out to a nice place. And I like cooking. I’ve been missing it, to be honest. I mean, I used to just make spiced-up ramen, but now that I have money to buy quality ingredients, it seems like a waste, you know?”

“I’m sorry, I assumed you wouldn’t want to cook for me. You’re an alpha.”

“And? So is Paula Dean.”

“I know. I just assumed…sorry. I can burn water, so I don’t even know what to ask them to order for you. If you ever want ingredients, just leave a list for Aiden and he’ll forward it to the grocery service.”

This is going way worse than Stiles intended. He’s trying to do something nice for Derek, not make the guy feel bad. “No, no, Derek, it’s not a big deal, I swear. Just, um, sit down and relax. Let me just get these off the stove and we’ll be ready to eat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Derek nodes and goes to the bedroom to change into loose sweatpants and one of the shirts that Stiles has been wearing to bed. What’s loose on Stiles, pulls tight against Derek’s gorgeous pecs. Hell yes. Stiles catches of whiff of their mingled scents and the alpha in him preens. He knows it’s all part of the heat normalization program, but he’s justifiably excited about an omega so strong and gorgeous and _fertile_ wearing his scent like a badge.

Stiles goes to pour Derek some wine, but he declines, making Stiles feel like an ass for having opened the bottle. Stiles resolves to drink only the one glass to soothe his nerves, then. It wouldn’t be professional to get drunk around a potentially abused omega, who also happens to be his boss.

“Out with it,” Derek commands, once they’ve served themselves.

“Really? You’re going to go with ‘out with it?’ Not even going to complement the meal first?”

Derek rolls his eyes but concedes, “Stiles, the meal is delicious. Feel free to cook for me any time you feel like it. Now, if you want to talk business, then I’m all business. Let’s get that over with.”

Wow. Stiles feels even worse now, for bringing business into what had been a post-work sanctuary. Sometimes Derek works on his laptop after they eat, but, for the most part, this has been a relaxing work-free zone. It's probably just to keep Derek's identity a secret, but Stiles likes to think that Derek enjoys their time together.

“Okay, um, so, as I’m sure you know, I’ve been working on starting my own business. For obvious reasons, heat therapy isn’t usually a lifetime job, especially not for alphas who want to settle down one day.”

Derek once again proves that he has stoic down to an artform --that bastard-- forcing Stiles to keep babbling.

“So, anyway, I love what I do. You’ve seen my credentials. I have so many licenses because I want to help people in need go have natural heats in the safest, most comfortable way possible. And, despite how we met, I think that the best way to do that is not in a heat center, except as a last resort. Lots of patients lose touch with the pleasure of heat because insurance makes it a medical problem, not an educational one. Some even give up on finding partners, because they learn to see heat as part of their medical condition and not a treat with a partner.”

“That’s tragic,” Derek says insincerely, “but you’re incorporating, not starting a charity. What’s the business model? If what you are proposing were profitable, wouldn’t people already be doing it?”

“See, there’s the problem. It would be profitable. I’d still be charging for a service. But, you're right: not as profitable as keeping people in a heat center, where the margins are the biggest. My model isn’t based on creating lifetime clients, the way a heat center does. I'll cut the overhead by doing in-home therapy and installing assistive devices. I can offer the partner training classes for free. We'll bill for heat therapy, but the therapist can transition from sex partner to supervisor. Eventually, maybe the insurance companies will realize that our method saves them money in the long run.”

Derek frowns. “It all depends on how they do the billing. It might not even be legal to bill for heat therapy if the therapist isn't the one having sex with the patient. There are obvious liability concerns.”

“I know. That’s the problem. I’m good at research, but some of this insurance stuff is impenetrable. I need to hire a lawyer or at least ask one whether my idea is even viable.”

“I’ll have Morrell find an expert,” Derek says immediately. He reaches over and pours Stiles more wine and then raises his water glass to toast.

“Great, if she knows someone I could hire, hopefully not too expensive, that would help so much.”

Derek cocks his head to the side like a curious dog. “No. I’ll find someone. Prep me a basic business plan - as much as you can figure out without a lawyer. And write a list of key questions you need answered before you can move forward. I’ll take care of it.”

“Derek, that’s above and beyond what I’m asking--”

“Stiles, you made me a nice dinner, gave me a successful pitch. I’m telling you that I’ll partner with you on this. If the lawyers can clear it, then I’ll invest.”

“Just like that?” Stiles asks. Then again, in spite of his timidity when it comes to sex, Derek seems to have no problem with decisive decision-making.

“I told you, when it’s business, I’m all business.” He reaches out a hand and gives Stiles the firmest, most commanding handshake he’s ever felt. 

“Okay, wow, I feel like I’ve seen the light. Hallelujah, my prince has come. Life changed by a handshake.”

Derek looks self-conscious. “I took a seminar.”

“You didn’t!”

“Laura made me.”

“Laura?”

“My older sister. And my boss. INot the gay one.”

“Ah.”

“She didn’t want me shaking like an omega.”

“Well, it’d be a shame to let those biceps go to waste,” Stiles jokes, reaching across the table to squeeze one for show.

“That’s what she said.”

Stiles giggles, ecstatic that the usually stoic Derek isn’t above a 'that's what she said' joke. “That’s what I’d say, too, if I were trying to pick _you_ up at a bar.”

“No, Stiles, that’s literally what she, my sister, said!” Derek protests, but he’s laughing, too. He looks even more gorgeous when he laughs, which is just a crime against humanity. Stiles knows it’s misogynist, but he mourns the fact that this beautiful, smart, desirable man is going to hack up his insides and take himself off the market. What a waste. He leans towards Derek as though under a spell.

“You’d really try that line?” Derek asks, a little shyly. “If we met in a bar, you’d like that I--” he gestures to the general state of his physique.

Stiles is pretty sure his jaw is on the floor, because what is Derek even saying? “Are you kidding? You’re built like a Greek statue, dude. Not only do I not know how to get that kind of definition, I’m not even sure I _have_ some of those muscles.”

“Yeah, but you’re an alpha.”

“Hate to break it to you, but there’s no secret alpha handbook that lets me know how to get into shape.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant that I’m an omega. I hired a personal trainer for alphas, because I wanted to … I wanted to look like this. I mean, I didn’t want to be weak. But, a lot of alphas think it’s intimidating or grotesque when they find out. I wear alpha cologne and use scent-canceling bodywash when I’m not here. Most everyone at work thinks I’m an alpha.”

“I can see why people would make that assumption,” Stiles grants. “But I don’t see how knowing you’re an omega can turn something so objectively gorgeous into grotesque.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?” Derek looks more awed than he has any right to be.

“Pffft. You own a mirror. You don’t need me to tell you. And this is not my professionalism or the wine or the fact that you’re funding my business speaking. I mean, I truly find you attractive. No mental tricks or pheromones needed.”

“It’s obviously not your _professionalism_ speaking,” Derek grumbles, but he seems pleased.

“What are you talking about?” Stiles complains. “I’m a consummate professional. Just because I’m not going to make our months together sterile and boring doesn’t mean I’m not a pro. I’ll have you know, I’m professional enough to get it up even if you looked like the Goblin King from the Hobbit. I’m just very, very lucky that I get to have sex with a guy like you and _I_ don’t have to pay for it. I mean, look at that stubble. It couldn’t look more artful if it were painted on by Da Vinci himself.”

The wine may be going to his head a little, because Stiles reaches out to feel that stubble and how it softly scratches against his palm. Before he knows it, they’re kissing and Derek has pulled him into his lap.

Derek’s thighs are thick and sinewy and his hands kneading Stiles’s ass have Stiles harder than he’s ever been outside of heat. The cocktail of their scents is as sweet as the world’s most expensive perfume. Stiles would push everything off the table and beg Derek to fuck him right here if it weren’t all Derek’s stuff he’d be breaking.

When Stiles is sure he’s either going to choke on their combined saliva or pass out from lack of oxygen, Derek pulls back. His lips are kiss-swollen and his eyes are dazed. Stiles has never wanted anybody more. 

“Hey, so, um, I know that we said that we’d have sex on Saturdays,” Stiles pants, “but I’m all about flexible treatment plans. So, um, if you’re in the mood, maybe we could--” Stiles’s proposition ends in squeal, because Derek just lifts him up and carries him towards the bedroom. 

Stiles is embarrassed by the mess on the bed -- business books, issues of Alpha’s Health, Starbucks cups, and half-empty Doritos bags. He wasn't expecting Derek back here today. Derek snorts at the disaster zone on top of the comforter and yanks it, debris and all, onto the floor. He then drops Stiles on the bed and inserts himself between his legs.

They rut and rub, swallowing each others’ moans. Stiles rummages for he lube among his collection of dildos and plugs. Meanwhile, Derek pulls their pants down and takes them both in hand. Derek keeps ending their kisses in these delicious little nips to Stiles’s lower lip, until it's swollen and sensitive. He loves having Derek above him and around him, completely overwhelming him. Derek is Stiles’s fantasy come to life: an omega that can take him like an alpha, but with that fertile omega scent charging the air.

Stiles tries to kiss his way to maybe sucking on Derek’s earlobe, but Derek brings a hand up to cup Stiles’s jaw and hold him in place. Stiles whimpers and spreads his legs wider. It’s been so long since he’s been fucked and, oh god, how he wants it. He reaches back to grab at Derek’s ass and urge him onward. Derek rubs against him harder, but that’s not what Stiles needs.

He’s just about to beg Derek to stick it in when Derek pulls back as much as Stiles’s grasping hands will let him. “Hold on,” he gasps. “Stiles, I’m going to come.”

Stiles pauses his ministrations because he doesn’t want Derek to come yet. He needs that beautiful omega cock inside him. Derek takes a few calming breaths and then grips Stiles’s cock and leans up carefully.

“Derek, what are you--”

“You have to be inside, right?” Derek questions. He’s got sweat beading his brow and looks utterly wrecked. Stiles hates that he's still clear-headed enough to ask, “Can this count for this week if you come inside me?”

If Stiles needed something to keep him from premature ejaculation, that has done it. Derek is enjoying himself, no doubt, and they’ve been seizing a flirtatious mood, but Stiles is here doing a job. Derek is just trying to normalize his heat so he never has to do this again. They’re not lovers and Derek will never be fucking Stiles, no matter how much Stiles wants it.

Stiles forces himself back into that calm mental space that can deal with even the worst pheromone haze of heat. He lies still as Derek sinks down on him with a subtle wince. Derek is obscenely wet for being out of heat ... and tight. But he doesn’t make a sound; he just looks Stiles in the eyes as he undulates, one, two, three, four times before they’re both coming.

Stiles doesn’t knot.

“That counts,” he says, once Derek rolls off him. “Weekly orgasm quota accomplished.”

“Thanks,” Derek replies with a yawn. Sadly, he means it.

***

“So you’re starting your own clinic?” Erica asks. She’s twirling one of her pigtails and slurping a bubble tea. It sounds like a chainsaw and is as annoying as all fuck. But she’s wearing a motorcycle jacket and a leather bustier, so the omegas in the park don't seem to care. Stiles can smell the pheromones already. He figures it’s only a matter of time before she does her usual shout out of, "gay and happily married! Turn off the pheromone foggers, please!" Nevermind that she could stop all of it if she just dressed more conservatively.

“I’m trying to start my own practice, yes. I’m asking you to join as a therapist/facilitator. Boyd too.”

“Ha ha. Boyd is a one girl alpha. Remember the time he came to have lunch with us at the office and ended up vomiting from all the heat hormones? That was hilarious.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. It had been hilarious, but it’s cruel to laugh at her own mate’s distress. “I’m not _that_ bad at business; I would never hire Boyd as a heat therapist. But we’re going to need someone to do medical assistive device installations. Maybe when his tour is up, he’d be down for something a little less violent.”

“We’ll see. The Air Force is willing to pay for an Engineering Degree, so probably not. What I want to know is the story of your mysterious benefactor. One day when you're rich and famous, I want to be able to tell the tale of how you went from struggling heat therapist to entrepreneur.”

“He’s not a mysterious benefactor. He’s a client who wanted to hire me privately.”

“Not just hire your privately, but set you up in a swanky apartment, fund your business, and sweep you off your feet.” She winks.

“What?” Stiles feels himself blushing. “No. There’s no way this is romantic. The guy just wants to normalize his heat cycle ASAP so he can donate eggs to his alpha sister. There’s nothing going on.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

“No you haven’t!” 

“True. But I have seen that _blush_ before. I’ve seen it on therapists right before they go off and bond to their clients. You have a crush.”

“I don’t have a crush!” He does, but Erica doesn’t need to know it. His lack of professionalism a few days ago was bad enough. He doesn’t need Erica thinking he’s letting his emotions get in the way of doing his job.

“You have a crush and I’m betting that the wealthy benefactor finds it mutual.”

“I don’t have a crush and even if I did, trust me, this particular benefactor is not looking for that, especially not from me.”

“Stiles, it’s me. You don’t have to lie. I know we all pretend that this is just a medical procedure, but it’s still sex. Connections are formed. How many people do we know who have married clients? Half of our staff are probably gold diggers. We all know this isn’t a lifetime career. You either marry a client or you get your own omega and find a new job. There aren’t a lot of other ways it ends.”

“Well it’ll end differently for me.”

“I thought you were getting out of it.”

“I’m getting out of the sex part, yeah, but this is still my field. It’s still what I’m passionate about.”

“Good for you and good for me, I guess, if you’re inviting me onboard. Anything you need me to do in the meantime?”

Stiles shrugs. “Keep your license current and do your best to stay on Deaton’s good side. I’m going to ask him to work part time as our overseeing physician until Scott gets done with residency.”

“Have you talked to Scott about this?”

“No, but I’m sure he’ll want to go into business with us. It’ll be like old times -- the brat pack together again. Don’t tell him yet, though. He doesn’t, um, know that I quit my job, remember?” Stiles feels bad keeping things from his best friend and brother, but the right time to tell him just never seems to come up. 

“If you won’t tell him even that, then how is he supposed to go into business with you, dumbass?”

“He will. I’ve done worse and he’s let it slide.” Nevermind that he’s never kept something like this from Scott before. “He’ll be okay once I tell him. He has to.”

“I don’t know, Stiles. Scott and Allison have been in Boston for four years. Allison set up an office there. Lydia and her girlfriend are there. The wedding is going to be there. He’s already worked for a bunch of the local hospitals in that area. Do you really think he’s coming back?”

“Silence, blasphemer!” Stiles tries to joke, but he knows his tone is choked and his eyes are watering. “Scott is my bro and that’s for life. I won’t hear of it, you wench!”

Instead of rolling her eyes and swearing at him back, Erica just sighs and pats his knee. Stiles can’t believe his life has gotten so pathetic that even Erica feels the need to coddle him.

He almost calls Scott to complain, but settles for changing Derek’s icon on their shared schedule to an image of grumpy cat. 

Aiden sends him a text later saying, “Derek says to take it down or he’ll rip your throat out. With his teeth.”

“Tell him I say *kinky.*” Stiles texts back.

He feels smug for about two seconds before Aiden replies, “I’m Derek’s PA, not his mouthpiece to flirt with a contractor.”

Stiles feels a cold numbness settle deep in his chest like pneumonia. What does it say that the only other person he reaches out to other than Scott won’t even give Stiles his direct number?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek grow closer, but their next attempt at sex proves challenging.

Stiles is trying to follow one of the exercise videos that appeared on Derek’s cloud drive the other day when the man himself walks in. He raises his eyebrows at Stiles’s flailing attempts to follow Shaun T. Curse that svelte motherfucker and his fucking positive attitude and his stupid smug, attractive face and the fact that he’s more alpha than Stiles will ever be.

“Put those eyebrows away!” Stiles groans at Derek. “This video torture is probably easy for you and your stupid _abs_. But us ordinary humans do not find it amusing.”

“I’m going to change and then I’ll do it with you,” Derek replies.

“Just what I need,” Stiles moans. “An omega to make me look bad.” Normally, Stiles wouldn’t care about being buff and bulky, the John Wayne model of alphahood. Being skinny and unassuming is great for his patients. Unlike Erica, people find him approachable. And being an alpha that looks like an omega is a pretty great niche in the gay community.

So Stiles usually likes the way he looks. He eats his Doritos and doesn’t even think about exercising. It’s just that Derek, in his obscenely tight yoga pants and revealing tank top, activates a deep-seated alpha need to show off. Stiles is sure it has to do with their slowly-forming mating bond. Instead of aping, he’s getting hooked on Derek’s pheromones. Sex without a condom is prepping him to breed his omega and that means showing he's strong, ready to defend the nest. Stiles hates it.

Derek unrolls another mat, winks at Stiles, and jumps right into Shaun T’s sadistic burpees regime. Stiles is not prepared to see Derek’s ass stretch those tight pants. He promptly falls over.

“Woah!” Derek exclaims. “Stiles are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Derek crouches down next to him, looking concerned and devilishly handsome. “Seriously, I’m like the world’s biggest klutz. I’ve got practice falling over. No biggie. I think Insanity is an appropriate name, though. It's a bit advanced for me.” His voice is high and stilted. Derek must know he’s hiding something (i.e. a boner), but he’s polite enough not to say anything.

Derek helps Stiles up off the ground and then turns the TV off.

“You don’t have to do that. I was just trying this for kicks.” He pats his stomach, where he’s grown a little pudge since he started working for Derek. “I need to abort my Doritos baby, but I don’t think Shaun T has the right medicine.”

“I didn’t like him at first,” Derek says. “He was too peppy. I wanted to claw his eyes out.”

“No kidding.”

“But, turns out, anger motivates me.”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs. He can picture Derek scowling in the background of one of these videos and then going homicidal on that grinning asshole.

“I can help you, if you want,” Derek offers shyly. “I’ve gone through enough personal trainers to know what works for those of us who don’t appreciate pep.”

On one hand, Derek in lycra manhandling Stiles. On the other hand, Derek in lycra manhandling Stiles. Stiles doubts his penis can survive it. “You don’t have to do that. You’re the one paying me, remember?”

Derek shrugs. “I have to work out anyway. I’ve been getting up early to do it so that I can spend time with you in the evenings. There’s a gym across the street. We can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Okay. We will be releasing a lot of pheromones, so it might help with your heat. I’m sure you’ve heard: couples who sweat together stay together.”

“Great. I’ll have Aiden arrange your membership. We can head over there tomorrow. Now, let’s try it again with the burpees.”

“You’re going to be a slavedriver, aren’t you?” Stiles groans. At least Derek decides to move his mat to face Stiles. Not that Derek’s face proves any less distracting than his ass -- especially not when Derek’s alternative to pep is pure serious, horrible intensity. 

Fifteen minutes later, Derek is pointing out how stamina is needed for survival. Stiles feels like a limp noodle, but the alpha in him is dying to do just one more goddamned burpee so that his omega doesn’t think he’s a weak sack of shit. 

“Torture. Pure and utter torture,” Stiles comments, once he’s safely rolling up his mat.

Derek is grinning down at him smugly, but offers a hand to balance Stiles when he stumbles towards the shower.

“You go first,” Stiles says, gesturing to the shower. “I’m just going to sit here and not move for approximately forever.”

“That’s okay. You can go first. I’ll do a few more stretches.”

“Or you could join me.” It’s out of Stiles’s mouth before he realizes it. They’re not a couple, he reminds himself. They’re not going to shower together.

Derek pauses in getting a towel out of the linen closet. He doesn’t meet Stiles’s eyes and his movements, when they resume, are stilted and deliberate. “Okay,” he says.

In what universe, Stiles wants to know, is such an inappropriate comment not challenged? Stiles is being totally unprofessional and Derek is fucking traumatized and there’s no way he should agree to this. But Derek just walks to the bathroom and Stiles finds himself following. He’s not going to draw attention to Derek’s past and make him feel uncomfortable or unwanted. But he doesn’t want to put Derek in a position where he feels somehow obligated to play house with Stiles either. 

“You don’t mind?” he blurts as Derek turns the water on. The shower is more than large enough for both of them, with two showerheads -- one above for a rain effect and another firm jet on the side. Stiles is sure this shower alone costs more than Stiles's car.

Derek shrugs. He still hasn’t turned to face Stiles yet. “You’ve already seen me naked. We’ve had sex. Doesn’t make sense to waste water.”

It’s perplexing, considering that Derek has money to waste on as much water as he wants. He doesn’t seem like the type to be all that concerned about being green either. But, with Derek revealing his gorgeous shoulders and sculpted ass, Stiles won't complain. He yanks his own clothes off and pushes past Derek, straight into scalding water. He flinches and ends up flinging himself back against the bench in the huge marble shower stall with a shriek.

Derek chuckles. “I like it hot.” He does reach over to turn it down, thank god.

“I bet you do,” Stiles grumbles.

Stiles expects the shower to turn sexual, but they just wash in companionable silence. Stiles is fascinated by the way Derek’s tattoo ripples with the muscles moving under his skin. He almost reaches out to touch when Derek turns around to wash the shampoo out of his hair and catches Stiles’s eye.

“What does it stand for?” Stiles asks.

“It’s a triskele.”

“I know _that_. But what does it mean to you?”

Derek hesitates a moment before he replies. “It’s supposed to be about a triumvirate - any three things that are interdependent. For me, that’s myself and my two sisters.”

“Do they have tattoos also?”

“Yes. Not as big as mine. We--” he clears his throat. “We lost the rest of our family a few years ago. It’s the three of us against the world. And sometimes my uncle, but nobody likes him.”

Stiles knows better than to pry -- especially when Derek is vulnerable and literally naked. “I’m an only child. But my oma died when I was nine. My apa and I…before I moved down to SF, it was us against the world.”

“And now?” Derek shuts off the water and they both move to towel dry. Derek’s nakedness is no longer distracting. Stiles is too focused on the barely-leashed emotion in his features -- concern, mixed with curiosity and lingering pain.

“Now, we don’t talk much. I went to college and he fell in love again. He even had another kid. With my best friend’s oma, actually. He doesn’t like me doing what I’m doing. I mean, I was going to major in criminal justice, become a cop, follow in his footsteps, et cetera, et cetera. Then I started volunteering at the campus heat clinic and it just clicked, you know?”

“You’re not an only child, then,” Derek interrupts.

“What?”

“If your father had another child, then you have a half-sibling. And your best friend’s oma … means you have a step brother. You said you were an only child, but you’re not.”

“You’ve got me there.” Stiles gives a weak chuckle. Trust Derek to be anal enough to spot the gaffe. The truth is, as much as Stiles does love little Ruth, he’s old enough to be her father. He and Scott were already in college when their parents got together. Ruth was born two years ago when Stiles already had a career and a home and a life outside of Beacon Hills. He makes the drive up every few months and when Scott’s home, but sadly, he’s spent less time with Ruth than with some of his patients. When it comes to identity, Stiles is an only child. 

Derek takes mercy on him and doesn’t crow or push. They put on their clothes in silence. 

“Hey, do you want to watch the Giants game?” Stiles asks. “I understand if you don’t -- not everyone is a fan and it’s just spring training. But, fair warning, I get, um, kinda into it, so don’t agree unless you’re ready to be completely overwhelmed.”

Derek’s smile is breathtaking. Even though Stiles already feels a kinship with Derek, this is the first genuine look of unadulterated happiness he's seen from the man. “I’m a fan,” Derek shrugs.

“That look says you’re more than a fan.”

Derek looks down at his hands. “It’s not exactly an omega thing, to be so into sports.”

Stiles snorts. “You mean some sexist bullshit about bats and balls and alphas liking sports and omegas liking dolls? I get that back in the day no adult omegas really spent enough time not pregnant to _play_ , but it’s the 21st fucking century. And even if you were knocked up at every conceivable opportunity--”

Derek’s eyes widen at Stiles’s impertinence. It's still considered rude to talk about reproduction with a friend of the opposite sex. Stiles is so used to doing it in a clinical setting that he forgets. Whatever. 

“They let omegas on suppressants _play_ in the majors now. It can't be that much of a stretch to think you guys watch! Besides, you can’t convince me there’s nothing for an omega to appreciate. I mean, just look at those alphas in those tight pants! You can practically see Pagan’s knot from the right angle. With binoculars. Baseball offers fun for all genders. If anyone told you that liking it makes you a bad omega, it’s only because they felt threatened by the hotness of an omega who can talk sports.”

Derek is looking down at the remote control. His shoulders tense and his breaths quicken. Stiles wants to ask him who this spawn-of-a-bitch was and what she did to him to make him think he’s anything less than spectacular, but Derek looks ready to snap. Instead, Stiles snatches the remote from him, leaning back against the couch with his arms up along the back.

Stiles had Tivoed the game in case Derek didn’t want to watch it, so he blithely fast forwards to the opening pitch. Jonathan Niese is looking good, though Stiles is happy that Harvey is out for the season. It means one less team to worry about, if the Mera can’t fill the gap. He says as much to Derek, who stays small and tense, carefully not touching Stiles.

Eventually, after an easy three up, three down inning, Derek relaxes back against his seat. He doesn’t curl into Stiles’s chest like a typical omega, but he leans back into the arm behind his shoulder. He turns once to scent mark Stiles’s hand, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge the alpha. He seems charged, hovering just out of reach and buzzing with the desire for comfort he won't take. _You deserve it_ , Stiles wants to tell him. _Whatever happened to you, you deserve to be loved and respected._

By the third inning, they’re both up and yelling - Stiles at the umpire and Derek at Bochy. 

“It’s just spring training,” Derek tries to get them to remember, but the next bad call has them both up in arms again. They grin at each other when they realize how ridiculous they’re being.

“Dude, this is awesome!” Stiles finally says when they take a break for Stiles to make them a plate of toaster oven nachos. “I was worried that you'd hate baseball and I'd have to Tivo it. I mean, you’re sure as hell paying me enough to delay my baseball gratification, don't get me wrong. But if I had to sit still and watch you read while I knew there was a game on I might've tweeked myself out of my skin. You would've thought I was a giant spaz. ”

“I already know you’re a giant spaz,” Derek replies, rolling his eyes.

Despite his flawless appearance, Derek eats messily. He spills crumbs on the leather couch and smears sour cream on his cheek when he stops to shout at Pence to fucking steal already. Stiles decides to laugh at him rather than wipe it off.

The Giants lose 7-4, which does not bode well for the season, but Stiles is the happiest he’s been in a long time. His apa was the one who made Stiles a Giants fan, but he’s busy with Ruth so he’s not even prepared to talk sports with Stiles when he calls. Scott occasionally makes attempts at being interested around playoffs, but, he’s not obsessive enough to be a fan. The fact that Derek is actually paying Stiles to do one of his favorite things just blows his mind.

“So,” Derek says as he’s about to head out the door. “Thanks for the nachos.”

“Dude, nachos were happening whether you were here to share them or not. Thanks for watching the game with me.”

“I had fun.”

“Me too.”

“We should do that more. I mean, you’re the client, so we can do what you want, but I’d be down for more baseball.”

“Yeah,” Derek grins. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten that you also wanted to work out together. In the gym starting tomorrow.”

“Ugh! I thought maybe seeing Pagan’s package would put you under a spell that would make you forget that I ever wanted to move my muscles at all. What time tomorrow?”

“Aiden will post it to the schedule, but, um, my lawyer says I still shouldn’t give you any personal details. It's just a precaution in case you develop one of those post-bonding territorial syndromes.”

“You mean in case I decide to stalk you?”

Derek looks nervous again. The spark retreats from his eyes.

“I don’t think you would,” Derek says. The ‘but I’ve been wrong before’ goes unspoken. “But they tell me that a pseudo bonding can be brutal on alpha body chemistry.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Stiles mumbles. Even though all this stuff is a routine fixture of Stiles’s work, he still feels a little bad. They’d been getting along so well, but Derek still doesn’t trust him.

“It feels strange, though, spending so much of my free time with you and not being able to just call or text.”

As much as it pains Stiles to say it, he tells Derek, “Your lawyers are right. The rules are there for a reason. I want you to feel as safe with me as possible and in order to do that, it’s worth a little incon--”

“No, no. I understand, but I found a way around it. My tech guy set up an anonymous Skype number and a Kik handle for me.” He hands Stiles a folded scrap of paper with a number and a user name written on it. “That way we can still message and call without involving Aiden.”

Stiles is surprised by the vehemence with which Derek says his PA’s name. “Do you have something against Aiden? Because you know you can always fire him. I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

Derek’s gaze narrows. “Has he been giving you problems?”

Aiden hasn’t given Stiles any real problems, but he is brusque, a little too alpha aggressive, and kind of dumb. He never seems to be happy to be there. Granted, nobody should be happy to take care of the needs of their boss’s kept booty call, but he doesn’t even try to fake it. “No. He does seem like kind of an asshole, though.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “That’s about right. I wish I had a good reason to get rid of him. My two overprotective alpha sisters wanted me to hire a bodyguard. When I refused, my nice omega PA disappeared and I got stuck with Aiden and his brother, like I need _two_ PAs.”

“Oh. Well, it’s sweet that they care about protecting you.” Stiles just wonders why Derek is in need of a bodyguard. He could just be an important person in a valuable company, but Stiles thinks it’s probably more than that. Whoever hurt him might still be out there. That sends a shiver down Stiles’s spine.

Derek shrugs. “I guess.” He reaches out to pat Stiles awkwardly on the shoulder. “Goodbye, Stiles. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Stiles agrees. “And sex on Saturday.”

“Sex on Saturday.”

***

To say that their next attempt at out-of-heat sex goes poorly would be the world’s worst understatement.

“Oh dear god! I think my wrist is broken!” Stiles shouts, because that hurts. It really fucking hurts. It hurts worse than the time he slammed his pinkie in the car door or when he fell off Scott’s roof and had to get stitches. He pulls the injured limb to his chest and cradles it as best he can with Derek still scrambling on top of him.

The pain in his wrist dwarfs the pain where he’s knotted, but that doesn’t mean that Derek can keep this up. Stiles hates it, but he puts all his alpha authority into the command to, “Stop! Derek, please, you have to stop. You’re going to hurt both of us.”

Stiles is suddenly aware that Derek is a big guy. He’s a little taller and a lot more muscular and capable of doing some serious damage, more than just a broken wrist. They’re not at a supervised facility. Stiles doesn’t have his panic button around his neck. There aren’t any staff to come to his rescue.

“It’s okay, Derek,” Stiles tries to soothe. “It’s okay, but you have to calm down. You’re hurting me. Derek, please, stop.”

Derek is hyperventilating, but there’s awareness in his eyes now along with the panic. “Stiles?”

“Oh thank god.” Stiles finally allows himself to collapse back onto the floor, now that Derek is aware enough to brace himself above him. It takes the pressure off Stiles’s wrist, but the flash of relief quickly settles into a deep, throbbing pain. 

“Stiles? I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry--”

“It’s okay, Derek. I just put my wrist down wrong. Fuck.” It really hurts, but they’re trapped here until the knot goes down, which even with his training takes a minimum of five minutes. “Just, um, can you lean back a little more? You can sit up, just carefully.”

Derek moves slowly, in deference to Stiles’s wrist and to where they’re tied. It can’t feel great for Derek either, considering his hole must have been pulled as much as Stiles’s knot.

Stiles hadn't been prepared for Derek to freak out like that. It had been great, feeling more like genuine sex than a clinical session. Stiles _likes_ Derek, after all, and he’s fairly certain that Derek likes him back. They just got carried away. Stiles was on top, pounding into Derek, who moaned sweetly and begged for Stiles’s knot. Neither of them realized that even if Derek wanted it, he was in no way ready to take an out-of-heat knotting. He’d howled as soon as Stiles popped, scrambling and writhing and trying to throw Stiles off, only to roll them both off the bed.

Derek’s beautiful face is red and blotchy from tears and his eyes still shine with the remnants of them. “I didn’t want this, Stiles. I swear. I thought, because the first two times went so well, that I’d be over it.”

Stiles sighs, because it wasn’t Derek’s _job_ to see this coming. That responsibility belongs to Stiles. He’s the professional. He’s had rape recovery and PTSD seminars, even though he rarely takes those kinds of clients. He should know better than to take things for granted.

“No, it’s not your fault,” Stiles reassures him. He attempts to pet Derek’s hair, but he has no idea if the touch is welcome. “I should’ve been more careful. We have treatment protocols for this kind of thing. I wasn’t following them.”

Derek nods, but the humbled, guilty look remains. He pulls Stiles down against his chest and they breathe together, in and out, completely in sync. Stiles is in so much pain that he can’t help the tears, but despite being the cause of all this, Derek’s presence is calming. Stiles knows that an omega can emit soothing pheromones that are supposed to help moderate their mate’s rage. It feels like being surrounded by warmth, embraced by the scent of hearth and home and mother.

Once the knot deflates, Derek helps him up and into a pair of sweatpants. He swiftly splints the wrist using a towel, a wooden spoon, some bandannas, and an ace bandage. Apparently he learned it as an Omegascout. Derek himself is limping and has trouble bending to pull on his pants. Stiles is surprised that instead of calling the omnipresent PAs, Derek helps Stiles into his sleek black Camaro. Stiles pointedly doesn’t look at the license number.

“Nice car.” Stiles grimaces. He wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball and cry out his pain. Sadly, the part of him that wants to impress a potential mate won’t allow it. He bites his lip as he suffers through Derek’s vertigo-inducing race to the hospital. 

The ER is both busy and depressing. Stiles spent a lot of his childhood in the hospital, but Beacon Hills had been a quiet suburban town, not a big city. The seats are old and uncomfortable, the linoleum floor scuffed from years of overuse, and the people are unhappy. Some of them smell. 

After he checks them in, Derek glares at a homeless guy until he moves over to leave them two seats next to each other. Derek tucks Stiles against his side, murmuring apologies and stroking his hair. It feels nice, just not nice enough to numb the pain.

It’s not long before Stiles’s name is called. Derek shuffles after him towards the beds. 

“I’m sorry, sir. Patients only,” a tiny Filipina nurse says. She’s half adorable, half intimidating.

Stiles doesn’t care one way or another, but Derek has a bereft, terrified look on his face. Stiles is pretty sure he can’t stand the idea of Stiles leaving him for even a second. Stiles feels something protective stir in him. Even though he’s upset that he’s here in the ER, in pain, he’s mostly angry at himself not Derek. He didn’t do enough to watch for Derek’s triggers and now they've landed in a situation that a good heat therapist should never be in. The least he can do is make it as painless for Derek as possible.

“Look,” Stiles says to the nurse. “I’m a heat therapist, license number 83304279. This omega is my patient and we were in the middle of a therapeutic practice when this happened. I can’t tell you the details, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone at this stage of treatment. Can we just see one doctor together?”

“I’m sorry, but he’s not on the board.”

“What?” Stiles snaps at her accusingly. “Just because he’s an omega doesn’t mean--”

“I’m fine, Stiles. I didn’t put my name down.”

“You didn’t put your name down? What the fuck, Derek? You’re hurt. You’ve been limping. There could be tearing. Fuck. It could get infected.”

“What is the nature of your medical concern, sir?” the nurse asks Derek.

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Stiles argues. “He has potential cloacal tearing and he’s coming with me and a doctor will take a look at him. He has great insurance, don’t worry.” Stiles forces his most charming smile, but he doubts the nurse can even see it through the wince of pain.

“You’ve been triaged to a priority area, sir. I have to ask him to fill out his paperwork before he can be treated.”

“Just give him the form. He can do it while we’re waiting for the doctor. You don’t get paperwork from shooting victims, so obviously he can be treated first. We both know that we’re going to be here awhile and I promise he’ll fill it out right away.”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but we have a different procedure for traumas.”

“Can’t you see he’s fucking traumatized?” Stiles finds himself shouting.

“That’s not what a trauma means in this case. Please, sir, come with me. Your client will be helped.”

“No! I will not come with you. I don’t care if it hurts me. I’m not going anywhere until I know that he’ll be taken care of!” It’s a gamble that Stiles hopes he doesn’t regret, because _ow_.

“Stiles--” Derek starts to protest.

“No! Oh my god, Derek, we’re in the Emergency Room. I’m in pain. I’m worried about you and the last thing I need right now is for you to fight me on this.” Derek’s mouth clamps shut and his eyebrows draw together in unhappiness, but he doesn’t argue. Stiles would feel guilty, except he’s in too much pain to care.

“I’m not going in there without him, so either we both wait out here while he fills out his forms or we go back together. I don’t care how long it takes.”

The nurse purses her lips in disapproval but eventually lets Derek follow them into the treatment area. For all her urgency, she ends up leaving them alone in a curtained off area with the paperwork as expected, no doctor in sight.

Stiles is horrified at the bloodstains he sees on the inside of Derek’s thighs when he helps him into a hospital gown.

Derek winces when he has to sit but fills out his form with the brisk efficiency of someone who does a lot of it.

After what seems like hours, Stiles finally breaks and lets out a small whimper. Derek looks up from his form, but doesn’t move closer to Stiles’s gurney. The comforting, sweet Derek of the waiting room is gone. In his place is the grumpy version, annoyed with Stiles strong-arming him into getting a checkup.

When Derek finally deigns to interrupt Stiles’s whimpers, it’s to say: “The average time before a patient with a broken bone receives pain meds in the ER is about an hour.”

“You’re not helping, Derek,” Stiles snorts. “And how do you even know that?”

Derek shrugs. “Laura’s on the board of a hospital.”

“You might’ve mentioned _that_ when I was nurse wrangling.”

“I don’t think it’s this one.”

“Again, not helpful.”

Stiles’s entire arm is going a kind of tingling, horrible numb. He knows he must have ugly tears waiting to spill from his eyes. Derek’s anger has again vanished, leaving him looking lost and a little unhinged.

“I’m sorry!” Derek shouts. “I’m sorry I’m so fucked up that I couldn’t just have sex with you like a normal person. Just tell me what I can do, Stiles! I want to help you.”

“If you want to help, don’t blame yourself. Just sit over there and wait and when the doctor comes, cooperate.”

Derek nods. He wraps his arms around himself like he might be cold. Stiles feels a little guilty, but then the pain sucks him down again like a wave washing in to shore.

“I can go back on suppressants. As soon as we get out of here … I’ll talk to my lawyers and we can figure something out. You don’t ever have to see me again. I promise.”

Stiles wasn’t exactly following, but once he realizes that Derek plans to stop on _Stiles’s_ behalf, he’s outraged. “What? No, no, no. Derek, you hired me to do a job and I intend to do it. This is a setback and it fucking sucks, but as soon as I’m physically able, I’ll be eager to take another swing at it. You’re an idiot if you think I’m going to let you stop your treatment on my account. So, once we get out of here, we’re going to sit down and have a long talk about this snafu and how we'll stop it happening again. Then we’re going to help you get on cycle, like we planned. If you’re freaked out and _you_ don’t want to keep going, then we’ll talk about that ... later, when my arm isn't held together by your kitchenware.”

Derek is breathing more rapidly now. Stiles’s is wary of a panic attack, but whatever it is, Derek takes a great gulping breath and swallows it down. “Yes, alpha.”

That particular misogynistic anachronism coming from Derek shouldn't be shocking, considering his history. Still, Stiles gasps. He stares at Derek for a long moment. He debates a long lecture on why Derek should never say that to anyone, especially not his heat therapist. But now really isn’t the time and place and Stiles is not _the guy_ who is going to heal Derek of whatever his past alpha did to him. “I’m not mad,” Stiles says, “but don’t ever say that to me again.”

Derek nods, lowering his face away from Stiles. It’s classic omega submissive body language and Stiles hates it. He’s never seen Derek do it before and he doesn’t want to see him start.

“Come here,” Stiles orders. “I mean it,” he adds when Derek hesitates.

Derek shuffles over reluctantly and only consents to lean back against the gurney when Stiles pulls him. Stiles nuzzles at his neck, where his bite mark will soon rest. Derek nuzzles him back. “It’s okay,” Stiles soothes. “It’ll all be okay.”

That lasts until a harried-looking alpha doctor arrives. She’s drowning in her scrubs, but offers them a deliriously peppy smile. “Hello, I’m Dr. Patel and you are,” she glances at the charts. “Derek and … gosh, I don’t think I’ll try to pronounce that. I was told that you insisted on being treated together. I have to say I don’t recommend it, based on what I have down here. For you,” she points to Stiles, “I need an x-ray. And for you,” she checks the chart again, “gyno exam.”

Derek shoots Stiles a panicked look. The doctor seems to notice. “It’s okay. We can accommodate,” she says with a simpering smile, slamming up the stirrups on the exam bed, even though Derek flinches. “How about you boys tell me what happened while I do the physical exams and then we’ll get that arm sorted. I’m going to need only one to the bed for this. Don’t be shy, honey. Put your legs up so I can get a good look.”

She’s kind enough to help Stiles out of the bed, but his insides burn and roll. He hates her -- the dismissiveness, the casual way she touches Derek’s bare thigh, how she looks at him like nothing more than a curious puzzle. 

“So you’re a pro,” she says to Stiles, the smallest of sneers marring her pretty face. “Mind telling me what exactly went wrong here?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong!” Derek protests.

“Calm down,” she replies. “If there’s no evidence of abuse, I’m not reporting him. Social work has enough to deal with. So, what happened?”

“We fell out of bed during an out-of-heat knotting,” Stiles replies. “I put my hand down wrong and the knot got pulled in a bad way.”

She pulls on a pair of gloves with a snap. “Did you dislodge?”

“No.”

“When did this happen?”

Stiles winces. “Immediately after the lock formed.”

“And your knotted girth?”

“2.67 inches.” Official measurements are written on his license, but Stiles is still a little amazed that he knows that. 

The doctor seems nonplussed. “What happened after you fell? How long were you tied?”

“We found the most comfortable position and waited it out. Maybe ten minutes.”

“How was the bleeding?”

Stiles can’t answer that one. He knows he doesn’t like what he saw when Derek took his pants off, but that’s about it. Both he and the doctor stare at Derek expectantly.

“Fine.”

“Bleeding isn’t fine,” the doctor snaps. Stiles can agree with her on that at least. “Now, initially, was it heavy? How long before tapering off?”

“It bled for about five minutes,” Derek replies. “It wasn't much; enough to fill a maxi pad.”

The doctor nods, making a note. “And your pain level?”

“Not bad if I stay still. Bearable when I move.”

She eyes Derek suspiciously at the word bearable, but lets it slide. “Any concerns about diseases or pregnancy?”

Stiles is distracted by Derek’s fidgeting, but he answers the question. “No. I wasn’t wearing a condom, but we’ve both been tested. We’re working on heat cycle normalization.”

“Okay. I still recommend getting tested again in about six months. A tear like this during knotting almost guarantees disease transmission, assuming diseases to transfer. Now, let’s get to the exam.”

Derek is shaking like a leaf. His grip on Stiles’s good hand tightens to the point of pain, but he doesn’t say anything.

“This might be a little cold,” the doctor says about the lube she’s pouring onto her gloved finger. “And you, sir, any complaints other than the wrist?”

“No,” Stiles replies absently. He strokes his good hand through Derek’s hair, trying to soothe him as much as possible. 

Derek whimpers.

“Are you experiencing a lot of pain?” the doctor asks.

He shakes his head and she ignores him, proceeding with the exam. Stiles is ready to growl at her to stop hurting his omega, but she pushes onwards, oblivious.

“Well, everything looks okay. I’m going to put in a stitch or two for good measure and prescribe some oral antibiotics and a topical cream. If you eat soft foods for about a week, it should take care of itself.”

As the doctor becomes absorbed in writing something on Derek’s chart, another nurse shows up with a wheelchair. “You’re overdue for an x-ray,” the doctor says to Stiles. He doesn’t want to leave Derek, not with how he’s still gulping from a near panic attack.

“It’s fine, Stiles. Please go,” Derek urges.

With a final, reluctant look, Stiles finally acquiesces. 

Surprise, surprise, it turns out that his wrist _is_ broken. They bounce him straight to a treatment room where he’s given awesome painkillers and a neon pink cast (at his request).

When he comes back it’s to find a man who looks like Aiden, except he’s wearing a humble, understanding smile.

“Aiden took Derek home. Once they discharge you, I’ll drive you back and pick up your meds for you.”

“And you are?”

“Ethan, Derek’s other PA.” Stiles vaguely remembers Derek mentioning something about this. He’s pretty sure two super sexy alpha twins never came up, however.

“I see. He keeps the nice one all to himself.”

Ethan throws his head back and laughs. That charming smile looks strange on the same face as Aiden’s usual scowl .

“Is Derek okay?”

“He’ll be fine. He just needed to get out of here. He doesn’t like hospitals.”

“I saw that. Would you mind telling me why?”

Ethan sighs. “It’s not my story to tell. And besides, I’m good at my job. I’d like to keep it. But, um, between you and me, I hope you know that Derek isn’t dangerous. He hurt you, but I’m sure it was an accident. He’s never been violent.”

Stiles knows he should be more frightened, but instead he’s intrigued. “But there have been other ‘accidents?’”

Ethan looks even shiftier than his usually shiftier-than-all-fuck brother. “He really likes you, Stiles. He’s not-- Look, Derek has had a rough time. He’s been happier since he met you. Please don’t let this scare you away.”

Ethan gives Stiles a rougher pat on the back than he’d like, considering his newly-casted wrist. On the ride home, he puts up with Stiles’s whining and drugged rambling, but never answers the question: _were_ there any other ‘accidents?’


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek finally debrief their knotting disaster. Derek reveals a little more about his past.

Stiles spends Sunday in Percocet Wonderland. His major accomplishment of the day consists of not getting any Doritos crumbs stuck in his cast. Erica has a treatment day, but Boyd is on leave, so he comes over, mostly to deliver sardonic, judgmental looks.

Stiles gives Derek his space for a little while. Calling Derek would interrupt his demanding schedule of marathoning Firefly, idly watching gay porn, and sleeping. It’s not until Wednesday, when he’s down to three pills a day, that Stiles decides to check in via text. 

_Wrist getting better. How r u?_ , he sends to Derek.

 _Fine._ Derek sends back.

 _So, about time for that talk, huh?_

_Busy at work,_ Derek replies a day later.

Stiles rolls his eyes when he gets the message, but responds, _We can wait until the weekend._ That should be enough time for Derek to process things. _Just come for dinner Saturday. I’ll even cook._

_The doctor said no sex until my stitches come out._

_Dude. When I say dinner I mean dinner. I’m bored and I actually miss you._ Stiles realizes that it may be a misstep after he sends it: too familiar, not professional. Fucking Percocet.

Stiles is shocked when Derek writes back, _I miss you too._

It proves to be more difficult to cook with a broken wrist than Stiles anticipated, so he ends up ordering pizza instead. He spends half an hour tidying the place and then sits staring at the door when he runs out of things to clean (thank you maid service).

Derek rings the doorbell precisely on time, covered up in a turtleneck and holding a bouquet of white lilies like a shield. He smiles at Stiles sheepishly when Stiles thanks him for the flowers and gestures him inside. Stiles is relieved that he’s no longer limping.

“So you missed me, huh?” Stiles teases. Okay, so maybe he really wants to hear those words come out of Derek’s mouth.

“We have been spending time together almost every day,” Derek grumbles. “I’m not used to watching TV without a running commentary anymore.”

Stiles grins. “And what am I supposed to do without someone to scowl at my commentary? An entertainer needs an audience and this swanky pad you got for me is a piss poor listener.”

Derek chuckles, taking the flowers back from Stiles to put them in a vase himself.

“So, I may have been too ambitious when I said I’d cook. Chopping veggies is painful and the last thing I need is to get raw meat on my cast. I ordered pizza. I hope that’s okay.”

Derek’s face falls. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I should have realized that. I could’ve had Aiden pick something up.”

“It’s fine.” Stiles waves him off. “It’s not like it’s interfering that much with my life. I can read and bum around here one-handed, no problem. And my abs appreciate the six week break from the gym. Plus, pizza! I’m always happy to have an excuse for pizza.”

Derek makes a face, but when they sit down on the couch he grabs four slices right off the bat.

However, he continues to eye Stiles’s cast with suspicion. “Are you in pain?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. His wrist still throbs occasionally, but he’s practiced with broken bones and how to deal with them. He was a clumsy child. “It’s all good.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. You’ve said that like a million times.” Stiles rolls his eyes and proceeds to stuff an entire half a slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth. He’s getting grease on his cast, but he doesn’t care. If it ends up smelling like pizza, that’d be awesome. “I don’t blame you, Derek. Accidents happen. I’m just happy you’re okay. You are okay, right? No complications?”

“No complications,” Derek affirms. “They took the stitches out yesterday. The doctor says I can have sex again in a few days.”

“Good. You have your heat due soon, right?”

Derek shrugs. “The whole point of this is that I’m not regular.”

“Well, according to when your last one hit, you can expect to go into heat as early as…” Stiles counts the days. “Tomorrow. Of course, if I’d have to take bets, I’d say next weekend.”

Derek looks shocked for a second but then schools his features. “Right. You’re a pro at this.”

Stiles winces. Normally he likes having his job skills praised, but today he just wants Derek to let go. He wants Derek to be that grumpy guy who leans awkwardly against Stiles and shouts at umpires. Stiles is kick ass at his job, but he’s starting to think that a sex therapist isn’t what Derek needs to heal. He needs a friend.

“Yes, I’m a pro and I’d like to figure out what we’re doing for this heat. Let’s get business out of the way and then we can go back to our pizza. Maybe watch _Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang_?”

“Sure,” Derek replies absently. “If you still want to,” he murmurs.

Stiles sighs. Derek has issues upon issues and Stiles, despite his training, is not really prepared to deal. Still, he reaches out to squeeze Derek’s bicep. If anything it feels even more toned, like Derek might’ve spent the entirety of the past week working out. 

“Dude, I’d be watching a movie if you were here or not. You coming over is like the only thing keeping me from drowning in the cheese from my own nachos. Besides, I don’t have anyone else who will scream at the douchey umpire with me. So whatever we decide to do with your treatment, I’ll still come over and watch baseball and bad movies with you if you want. Who knows? We’re deep enough in that seeing me regularly might still help with your heat.”

Derek seems to perk up at that. “So we don’t have to keep having sex?”

“Well, we never really did. I mean, it might take more heats, but you’ll normalize eventually no matter what. We can just keep hanging out. We don’t have to have sex outside your heats. I guess you could technically get by without a partner, but you’re in your mid-thirties and childless.... Solo heat won’t be as easy as you remember from when you were young.”

“But what if I hurt you?”

Stiles scoffs. “During heat? I mean, accidents do happen, but it’s not likely. Heat hormones should keep you docile, especially considering we’ve got the beginnings of a bond. You were fine last time. No, you were great.”

At Derek’s stern look, Stiles continues, “Okay, if you insist we can get a heat chaperon to check in on us. I’m sure it won’t be necessary, but we can do it if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Someone strong? Who can physically overpower me?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Hey, I know you’re stronger than me, Mr. Big Bad Omega, but you’ll be on a hormone high. I’m pretty sure me and one other person, no matter the size, can subdue you. I’ve seen Kira, Deaton’s wisp of an intern, push an agitated omega twice her size onto a gurney with her pinkie.”

Derek keeps staring.

“Fine. If you’re determined to make your next heat as awkward as humanly possible, I’ll get Erica to come over. And Kira will be here too for the simulated bonding bite. Hell, invite the Wonder Twins and we can make it a full on party.”

Derek snorts, but relaxes enough to grab another slice of pizza, holding it New York style before shoving it in his mouth. 

It would be so easy if the discussion could just end there, but Stiles knows that he has to push for more. He’s the one who fucked up and he did it right when Derek was starting to get better. He owes it to Derek to at least try to discuss the situation.

“I know you’re not open to it right now, but, if you want my professional opinion, I think we should keep having sex outside of heat as well.”

“Stiles, I had a panic attack and I hurt you!”

“So? You think you’re the only one who gets those? It doesn’t happen much anymore, but after my oma died I used to have them all the time. They suck, dude, but it’s not the end of the world. It doesn’t make you a freak and it doesn’t make you dangerous.”

“How'd it happen?” Derek asks.

“A brain disease,” Stiles replies carefully. He’s had the conversation about his oma enough times that now he just wants to get through it. “When I was a kid. I, um, didn’t cope that well, to be honest.”

“But you got better?” Derek sounds skeptical.

“Dude, so much better. You should’ve seen me after. It was full on crazytown. I was terrified of losing people. I used to steal inhalers. My best friend/brother Scott has asthma, so I'd stash these ill-gotten inhalers everywhere. Never mind that the people I stole them from might need them. And my apa ... I micromanaged his life. I panicked, about his job, about his eating habits, about any attempt he made to be the actual parent in our household.”

“That doesn’t seem crazy.” Yeah, but only because Stiles was coping pretty well compared to _Derek_. “You just wanted to protect the people you love.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, well, I took it a little too far. I opened my apa’s mail and saw his cholesterol report. He couldn’t eat bacon for like four years because I’d start hyperventilating when I caught him. I used to be triggered by fucking bacon!”

Derek smiles a small, bittersweet smile. It would be adorable if it didn’t make Stiles’s gut hurt. “I didn’t know ... I mean, I’ve just been avoiding sex. I didn’t know I could be ‘triggered,’ whatever that means.”

“Dude, it’s kind of slang when used as a verb, but I’m sure your shrink has talked to you about flashbacks and emotional triggers.”

“I don’t have a shrink.”

Stiles spends a moment blinking at Derek owlishly. He doesn’t have a shrink? Derek is like the most fucked up person Stiles knows. How in the hell does he get away with not having a shrink? Though not being treated does explain a lot.

“Okay, well, just a suggestion, but maybe you should get one.” It comes out meaner than Stiles intended. But, come on! Derek broke Stiles’s fucking wrist and he hasn’t even tried to fix the problem! Who _does_ that? “I mean, you hired me. A shrink is really no different. But, you know, for your mind, not your pussy.”

“But I like _you,_ ” Derek grumbles.

“Yeah, well, as we saw last Saturday, I’m no mental health professional.”

“I don’t need a mental health professional!” Derek abandons his pizza, turning to shout, all up in Stiles’s face. Stiles is ashamed to admit that he flinches. Body trauma - Derek did hurt him, after all.

“Okay,” he spits, because sarcasm is his only defense against Derek's 200 pounds of pure muscle. “So we’re just going to pretend that you’re totally fine. We’ll just pretend that you're not spending $120,000 on heat therapy, even though you're healthy. Or that you didn’t flip your shit when I knotted you. You’re the paragon of sanity. You’re just getting your fucking ovaries chopped out for no good reason.”

“I’m fine. I’m dealing,” Derek growls. “I hired you to fuck me, not judge my life decisions.” Stiles can feel Derek’s hot breath against his cheek, coming in great frustrated breaths. His muscles are clenched tight with determination. He’ll cling to his denial with ever fiber of his being, Stiles realizes.

Stiles’s anger deflates. Derek isn’t doing this on purpose. He’s doing this because it’s a way to cope. It just isn’t working anymore, even if Derek doesn’t know that yet.

Stiles reaches out a shaking hand. He cups Derek’s cheek, feeling that artfully crafted stubble rasp against his palm. Derek leans into the touch, letting his eyes slip closed. Stiles wonders if Derek is even aware how hungry he is for that simple touch. 

“Hey,” Stiles whispers. “You’re dealing. You’re doing good, Derek. You’ve done so good.” He grows bold. He strokes his hands down Derek’s back, feeling the tension bleed away with his touch. It’s almost intoxicating to have this kind of power over someone. “You’ve been so brave. You’ve got your company and your savings and you’re doing so well for your family.” Derek’s facing one of his biggest fears so he can donate eggs to his sister. That’s an act of pure filial love, if Stiles ever saw one. “I’m proud of you.”

Derek gasps. He buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck. Stiles cups the back of his head and collapses back onto the couch’s armrest, letting Derek cuddle on top of him like a giant cat.

Once Derek’s breathing has leveled out and his body has relaxed, Stiles pushes his head up just enough so that he can look Derek in the eyes.

“I know you’re tired, but you can’t give up now,” he says. “Derek, whatever it is ... you’ve already got a professional sex therapist on retainer. You’re working on heat normalization. This is the perfect opportunity, in a safe space, for you to deal with whatever it is that you need to deal with. Who knows? Maybe at the end of it, you won’t even need the oophorectomy.” Stiles is starting to get excited by the possibilities now. The side-effects of a needless oophorectomy are too terrible for Derek to justify. If Stiles can stop that, then he will have done a good job, both as a professional and as a friend.

“After you donate some eggs, you can keep your ovaries, keep coming to me for heat therapy, or even meet someone. Maybe one day you can get married and get pregnant and have kids of your own.” It’ll hurt to see Derek move on from him like everyone else Stiles cares about, but at least Derek will be _happy_.

“It’s just sex,” Derek mumbles into Stiles’s chest. “Just because you’ve made it your career doesn’t mean we all care about it.”

“But--” Yes, Derek’s right, sex isn’t super important to everyone, but why can’t Derek see how much his fear of sex is messing up his life? He’s a gorgeous, single, successful omega; he shouldn’t be spending all his free time with a heat therapist. He should be someone’s _husband_. He should be an _opa_.

“No! God, Stiles, you can’t just--” Derek pushes away so that they’re facing each other once again. “I’m your client. You’re supposed to respect my asexuality. It said so in your therapist profile!”

Stiles snorts. “You’re not asexual,” comes out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

“You don’t know that! You don’t know _me_.”

“I know that you’re scared of sex. Or maybe you’re scared of your heat. Or knotting. But that doesn’t make you asexual.” 

Stiles winces internally. He’s been part of the queer movement enough to know that people have different reasons for being ace; sexual trauma must be a valid one. But lacking sexual desire is one thing and just _giving up_ on sex is another. Stiles refuses to believe Derek, who kisses so passionately, who begged for the knot, who Stiles catches staring as his ass…. Derek is not asexual. He can’t be.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that you’ve never wanted sex.”

“People change,” Derek replies. “Things happen and I--”

“Tell me you’ve never wanted to have sex with me.”

“I’m paying you to--”

“Tell me you’ve never felt the impulse. You’ve never just looked at me and wanted my knot in you, if even for a brief moment before you lock that thought in a box and stab it twenty times.”

“It’s just hormones. My body … it’s not _me_. The things it wants; they’re not what _I_ want.”

“So if you had a magic wand and you could make your issues go poof, you wouldn’t? You’d give up on sex even if nothing bad had ever happened to you.”

Derek sighs, leaning back against the couch so he can avoid Stiles’s eyes. “Stiles, I’d be a completely different person.”

Stiles frowns. “Well, I’m not suggesting that. I do actually _like_ you, you know. And without your issues, I probably wouldn’t even be allowed in your life. You’d be married to an amazing alpha with a yacht and cologne-ad good looks. He'd be on the board of a sea otter rescue and wouldn't want you associating with broke sex workers like me.”

“A sea otter rescue?”

“Shut up. They’re adorable. They crack shells on their little bellies. Someone awesome enough to deserve you would have to love them, trust me.” Stiles doesn’t like to contemplate the kind of alpha Derek will land if -- no, when -- he gets better. Whoever it is will surely outclass Stiles in every way.

“So your ideal alpha wants to save the sea otters. Got it.”

“Yeah, but enough about me. I’m talking about _you_. I don’t want to see you completely change who you are, because even your grumpiness is kind of adorable. I just want you to be able to move forward. It’s not a magic wand, but maybe, if you see a therapist, they can give you some exercises we can work on together. Maybe then, you can be you, just a version of you that isn’t stuck in his trauma.”

“Except I’m not traumatized,” Derek replies, matter-of-fact. He almost looks confused by the suggestion.

“Ugh, Derek, I thought we went over this already. Evidence to the contrary,” he gestures to his cast, “plenty of it.”

“You don’t get it!” Derek stands abruptly, almost knocking over the stupid glass coffee table. Stiles manages to save the pizza box, at least. “I wasn’t abused. Nobody beat me or raped me. I’m just fucked up. I don’t have a good excuse!”

“You don’t need an excuse, Derek.” Stiles stands as well, reaching out for his omega. “Telling yourself you don’t have the right to have a problem is not normally how problems get solved. It doesn’t matter why or what claim you have on the way you feel."

Derek’s eyes cloud over with the thinnest veil of tears. “You’d hate me if you knew. You wouldn’t want to touch me.”

“Come on.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Have a little faith. I’ve had sex with a guy who was so fat that I had to stop mid-thrust to put baby powder between his stomach folds. I used to have a regular, a cancer patient, who threw up on me at least once a heat. I can take whatever you dish out. _And_ you’re my friend. I’m not going to just abandon you.”

Derek looks up sharply, like it’s shocking that Stiles would vocalize what he’s sure they’ve both been feeling. Sure, Stiles is under contract, but their interaction goes beyond that. Derek must know that Stiles wouldn't let just anyone see him completely nerd out over baseball and Star Wars. He wouldn’t cook just anyone his grandma’s recipes or tell them about his oma.

“Come on, Derek. Just admit it. You like me. You missed me. I like you, too. We’re friends. And that’s not going to change. You may not know this about me, but I’m a stubborn little fuck, so I’m not giving up on you.”

“Okay.” Derek says, awed.

“Good.” Stiles grabs his wrists and leads him back over to the couch. “So you feel like telling me what exactly caused our little mishap last week? Is it the knotting that’s the problem?”

Derek nods shyly.

“That’s good to know. We can avoid that for now. Maybe work up to it if you feel comfortable.”

“I know what you’re thinking. I wasn’t raped.”

“You said that already.” Stiles wonders if Derek is protesting too much. Or maybe Derek thinks that violent rape is the only kind of valid sexual trauma.

“Jennifer, my ex-wife--”

“You know it can still be rape between spouses, right?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Jennifer didn’t rape me. She never hurt me. That’s what I don’t understand. I shouldn’t be this fucked up about it. She scratched me up a little during heat sometimes, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. He’s never left a mark on an omega -- even when he first started out. Then again, a few bites and scratches (or rug burn) are all pretty standard, according to heath class. Stiles even remembers his oma telling him she got attacked by a flock of angry seagulls when he saw her showering after “oma-apa special adult alone vacation time.” 

“I mean, she never did anything that couldn’t be fixed with Band Aids and Tiger Balm.”

“Okay. But she’s your ex-wife for a reason.”

“Yeah, but the reason has nothing to do with sex.”

Somehow that’s even worse. It means that Derek would still be with that monster, if not for something completely unrelated to what screwed him up.

“Okay, so what does it have to do with? I mean, it’s not like anyone would be crazy enough to divorce _you_. You didn’t, like, try this voluntary cutting out your ovaries thing with her, did you?” Because Stiles wouldn’t allow his omega to hurt himself like that, even if they never planned to have children. He’d leave before he’d have to watch another person he loves die too young and senselessly.

Derek looks affronted. “If I’d asked for an oophorectomy, she would have literally killed me.”

“Okay, no. You, my friend, have just struck one of my biggest pet peeves. She wouldn’t _literally_ have killed you. She would have figuratively killed you. ‘Literally’ is--”

“Stiles, I know what the word ‘literally’ means,” Derek grumbles. Stiles is shocked that Derek focuses on the grammar Nazi thing when he's the one with the wife who would have _literally_ killed him. “That’s why we’re divorced. She killed someone and now she’s in jail.”

“What? Holy donkey-fucking christ!” Stiles leaps up off the couch, fidgeting. “Your ex-wife is in jail for murder?”

Derek nods.

“And you’re telling me that this has nothing to do with your fear of sexual situations? A psycho ex who _literally_ kills people is just, like, no excuse for being a little traumatized? Sorry, Derek, but even if you’re not the one she murdered, you have every right in the world to be a little screwed up by that. It doesn’t matter if she never physically hurt you. You trusted her and she betrayed that trust.”

Derek shakes his head vehemently. He’s back to staring down at his hands. Stiles hates the timidity. It just looks so wrong -- someone as strong and graceful as Derek, all hunched in on himself, deflated and defeated. “You don’t get it, Stiles. I betrayed _her_ and now she’s in jail!”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “What do you mean you betrayed her? Were the two of you in some kind of murder conspiracy and you flipped on her to the police? Or did you like stab her in the back, _literally_?”

“No, Stiles! What’s wrong with you? Do you get off on accusing people of murder?”

Stiles shrugs. “No.” Except that’s a lie. “Okay, maybe. I used to want to be a cop … actually helped arrest this psycho omega who was stalking my friend Allison. I don’t believe you’re guilty of anything, Derek, other than missing a textbook opportunity to go see a therapist. But, if you insist, why don’t you explain to me how you betrayed your thug of an alpha?”

“Fine.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“I will.”

“Then do.”

“Stiles!”

Stiles grins at Derek then, enjoying riling him up a little too much. He kneels in front of Derek and grabs his hands, massaging them between his palms the way that had made Derek purr during heat. “I’m not going to judge you, Derek. Just tell me what happened. I won’t interrupt. No, that’s promising too much. I won’t needlessly interrupt.”

Derek nods. “First of all, Jennifer wasn’t a thug. She was a schoolteacher.” He says it fondly, which turns Stiles’s stomach. How can Derek still defend a murderer? Someone who probably abused him? Then again, it’s probably the fact that she abused him that has him defending her. 

“Okay, so if she was such a sweet girl, who’d she kill? Why’s she in jail?”

“The man she killed was a minority shareholder in the company. Deucalion was--”

“Deucalion? Really? A name like that and you almost expect to be murdered by an antique silver knife in a Greek bathhouse.”

Derek glares.

“I mean, at least tell me that this Duke person was as much a villain as his name suggests.”

Derek winces. “Deucalion was a complicated man, but he didn’t deserve to die.”

“Complicated meaning villain?”

“Complicated meaning a man with the right skill set to do a certain kind of business.” Stiles can picture the type: charming, smarmy, a bit of a sociopath, obsessed with power. “My ama kept Deucalion on a tight leash, but then she died and he thought he could push her children around.”

Stiles shifts back onto the couch, but keeps a firm grip on Derek’s hands. “So he was a threat and your wife got protective.”

“He was a threat to Laura becoming CEO, but not a physical threat. All boards, even sea otter rescues, have an alpha like him. Our board had a whole pack of them. I’m not going to lie -- his death solved a lot of problems, but we were dealing with him. He had a weakness.”

“Susceptibility to timely murder?”

Derek snorts. “Try pretty, young omega males.” Omegas like Derek.

“So you cheated on your wife for corporate gain and she went into a jealous rage and killed him?” Stiles only realizes how callous that sounds after it left his mouth, but he can’t help himself. He feels the familiar, electric thrill of solving a mystery. It pings the part of him that wanted to be a detective. Maybe he could have done more good as a cop than a sex therapist after all.

“Not far off with the jealousy. But I never cheated on Jennifer. I loved her.” Stiles can see that, even now. People don’t get that bittersweet, forlorn look in their eyes without the kind of love you write songs about. Not that Stiles would know.

“But you said you betrayed her.”

“That’s because I did. I never had sex with Deucalion, but it was still my fault.”

“How could it be your fault?” Stiles protests. “She killed a guy you didn’t even sleep with!”

“She asked me not to see him anymore. She warned me that she couldn’t handle it, but I didn’t listen.”

“Dude, she should have been fine with it! A modern omega can have a professional conversation with an alpha without impaling himself on a knot. Your career shouldn’t have had to suffer because your wife learned her gender norms from and episode of Mad Alphas … or the Stone Age.”

“Laura said almost the exact same thing. She said that if Jennifer was going to make herself crazy worrying, I should just not tell her what I was doing. She said it wasn’t Jennifer’s business. But as much as I wanted to help my sister, I should have listened to my wife.”

“No, you shouldn’t have! You’re your own person, Derek. An alpha forbidding her omega from doing _business_ with other alphas? That’s the kind of forced isolation that leads to abuse, if it isn’t abuse in and of itself. It sucks that she killed him (especially for Deucalion) but living in constant fear of your alpha’s crazy isn’t living at all.”

“She wasn’t crazy. Deucalion wasn’t just a random colleague. He’d courted me since I was sixteen and he formally asked my ama for my first partnered heat.”

“So you _did_ fuck him.”

“No! My ama never would have agreed to that, but he had an accident not long afterwards that left him blind. He always had any number of omegas panting after him, but I was the last one he _saw_. I think that’s why he kept pushing even after I married Jennifer. You're right: I played along for corporate gain. I’d lie to Jennifer and then take him out to dinner to sign documents we could’ve sent by courier. Or I'd sneak away at parties to flirt with him behind her back.”

“Sounds to me like your wife killed an innocent, blind man.”

“Deucalion wasn’t completely innocent!” Derek protests. 

Stiles wonders at the bizarre mess of contradictions that Derek has constructed to preserve his own guilt. The wife who has been objectively convicted by a jury is some kind of victim. The _actual murder victim_ is not completely innocent. And the one guy who isn't a sociopath or a nutjob is the one responsible? 

“Deucalion knew how to take it right up to the line. He’d use his blindness as an excuse to take my arm or he’d run his hands all over my stuff when he dropped by my office. He wanted Laura to smell him all over her baby brother. He enjoyed the power trip of forcing us to indulge him as much as he enjoyed the flirtation. I tried to explain that to Jennifer, but she thought he was challenging _her_. I don’t think Deucalion thought about my alpha for even a second before she shot him. It was just another corporate mindfuck to him.”

“Okay, so on one hand you have a sociopath who enjoys forcing his corporate rival to pimp out her omega brother. On the other you have a psychopath who kills blind guys for using her omega as a guide. How is any of that your fault? I’m pretty sure that even if you had cheated on her, murdering the guy would have been her own decision.” 

“Jennifer wasn’t like you,” Derek protests. “She was a real alpha.”

“What the hell does that mean? And should I be insulted?” Stiles knows that gays are often not considered ‘real’ alphas, but he doesn’t think that’s what Derek is getting at. He doesn’t seem homophobic.

“I mean, she feels her alpha instincts strongly. She couldn’t help herself.”

Okay, Stiles does not like where this is going -- on the bullet train to domestic violence town. Not that it’s entirely unexpected. “Alphas can always help themselves. I’ve trained even the biggest, dumbest knotheads to hold off during heat. It’s not about control. It’s about consequences and whether they think they can get away with it. If you don’t force them to live up to the standards of basic human decency, why should they?”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t do that!” Derek shouts. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the strength to leave the one person who loved me enough to be jealous over me! I knew she was hurting. I never should have lied to her.”

“Okay, maybe lying wasn’t the best tactic. And maybe leaving her wasn’t either,” he grudgingly admits. Maybe Stiles is still pathetically single for a reason -- leaving has always been his solution. “But you could have stood your ground, because you were right and she was so very clearly in the wrong.”

Whenever Stiles hears about an omega who lets an alpha beat them or their children, he always thinks about Melissa nee McCall, now Stilinski. When her first alpha pushed Scott down the stairs in a drunken rage, Melissa didn't hesitate to leave him. It’s not impossible. It’s hard, but it’s not impossible, and it’s a fight worth fighting. Stiles can't help but judge the people who just roll over and take it.

“Maybe because the last time I stood my ground, Jennifer spiked my food with heat inducers so I’d miss the meeting?”

“She gave you heat inducers against your will?! Derek, that’s like five different crimes! Not to mention it qualifies for the kind of trauma you are perfectly _entitled to_ as the victim of domestic abuse! You have nothing to feel guilty about. You have every right to seek treatment and every possibility of recovering.” Why can’t Derek just see that?

“It wasn’t that,” Derek snaps. “I know it was wrong of her, but I don’t even remember much of it.” The way he shudders makes Stiles think that the experience still affects him more than Derek would like to admit.

“Okay.” Stiles is starting to realize that Derek is too close to the situation to identify what would cause the trigger. If he knew, he would’ve told Stiles already. Time to think like a shrink and ask some questions. “Did she used to knot you a lot? It seems as though knotting is the main problem.”

Derek nods. “At least once a day.”

“Once a day?” That’s a ridiculous amount. Stiles is lucky if he pops his knot twice a month for non-heat sex (back when he had more of that). According to the National Journal of Sexology, the average for a healthy alpha-omega pair is between two and five. “That’s, um, excessive.” Derek might not be ready to hear it, but Stiles is pretty sure all those out-of-heat knottings qualify as abuse as well.

Derek shrugs. “We were having trouble getting pregnant.”

“So you two geniuses thought you’d exhaust yourselves the 28 days a month you’re _not_ fertile? You know that too much out-of-heat knotting can cause all kinds of health issues for the omega.”

Derek winces. He probably knows all too well about cloacal fissures and prolapses. No wonder he didn't think he needed to be admitted to the ER last weekend.

“Jennifer read somewhere that knotting outside of heat increases an omega’s fertility.”

“Not true,” Stiles replies, though it is a question he gets occasionally when he works with couples. “What it does do is helps regulate an omega’s cycle, like you and I are doing. A pair-bond with a suitable partner will sync the alpha into a sympathetic cycle. Being on cycle triggers helpful instincts like pre-heat nesting, protectiveness, disinterest from other omegas. That leads to higher fertility, but once you’re both on cycle, the extra knotting does jack shit.”

“So she lied about that too--” Derek sounds upset, but not surprised. He buries his head in his hands. “Great. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“No,” Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand. Derek is sometimes a bit of an idiot, but it’s not his fault that he loved someone enough to trust their word. “She played you, but she was your wife. What kind of relationship would it be if you didn’t trust each other?”

Derek looks lost for a moment, and so young. Stiles wonders what he’s thinking about, if it really is as sad as that expression on his face.

“Let’s watch your movie,” Derek says eventually.

Stiles doesn’t think this conversation is exactly over, but there are bags under Derek’s eyes. His lips look red and chapped from worrying at them. Stiles isn’t sure if he looked like this when he came in or if the weight of examining his past has gotten to him. He’s not ready to tell the whole story, and even though Stiles is still direly curious, for once, he realizes that this isn’t about him. He vows that before this job is done, he’ll convince Derek that none of his trauma is his fault. His alpha abused him and he deserves better.

“Okay,” Stiles replies. “Just to warn you, I intend for us to finish this pizza, so get back to eating.”

This time, Derek leans against Stiles’s chest and lets Stiles stroke his hair. It’s a reversal of their usual movie-watching position, but it doesn’t feel any less right.

The next day, Stiles calls up some former colleagues who specialize in victims of domestic violence. He gets their recommendations for therapists and sends the list to Derek. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he emails it to Ethan, just in case.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek complete the pseudo bond.

A week later, Stiles is awoken by an urgent pounding on the door.

“No!” he shouts at the ceiling, dropping his pillow off the bed as he rolls away from the sound. He shimmies and fidgets, but without a pillow to cover his head, the incessant knocking becomes unbearable.

“Okay, okay, I’m awake. Not happily. But I’m awake.” He grabs his phone on his way to unearth a mostly-clean shirt.

Stiles opens the door to Ethan’s all-too-bright and smirking grin. Lucky for Ethan, he has the good sense to immediately surrender coffee and an apple fritter.

“Dude, it’s like--” Stiles has no idea what time it is. “The crack of freakin’ dawn.” Despite the easy truce on Saturday, Stiles hasn’t seen Derek in a week. Without Derek's presence to anchor to his schedule, he’s not even sure what times he’s been waking up.

“It’s eight o’clock,” Ethan replies, rolling his eyes. “The sun has been out for almost two hours.”

“We would have come sooner,” a loud, even more annoying version of Ethan adds. At least Aiden looks properly grumpy for this hour. “Except this stubborn idiot decided that it would be ‘intrusive.’ He’s paying you so he can be intrusive.”

"And I'm paying you to shut the hell up," Derek grumbles. He's leaning against Aiden, face obscured by a hoodie and a pair of expensive sunglasses. Even from five feet away, Stiles can smell the unpleasant antiseptic odor of medical grade scent blockers. Derek’s cheeks are flushed and sweat beads at his temple, but he keeps his arms wrapped around himself like a shield. He’s in heat.

Stiles sighs, gesturing for the twins to bring Derek in as quickly as possible. “Derek, we went over this. You have to call at the first sign so you don’t start a fucking riot.” There are protocols for these things. The omega rights movement removed most of the laws restricting an omega’s freedom, but going out in public in the throes of an unsuppressed heat just isn’t _done_.

Derek shrugs, unbothered the very real threat of rape, violence, and sending innocent bystanders into a frenzy. “I was escorted the whole time.”

“What if you had been in a car accident or what if--” Stiles trails off. The second Derek gets close enough, Stiles loses his train of thought.

It’s the sweetest smell Stiles has ever encountered. He’s scented hundreds, if not thousands of omegas in heat, but he’s never smelled anything like this before. The scent follows every twist and turn of Stiles’s history with pleasure. It's everything wonderful, from the time he was a baby and in love with his mom’s fresh baked bread to that dangerous electrical smell of a storm at sea.

Before he knows it, he’s grabbed Derek by the arm and is practically growling at Aiden.

“Hey! Watch it!” Aiden snarls. He gestures emphatically to the subtle nose plug he’s wearing. “I’m not a threat to you.”

Stiles pulls Derek against him and yanks down the neck of the blocker-soaked hoodie so he can bury his nose in the source of the scent. The gland pulses, hot and pungent, where Stiles will bite later. Stiles takes in a few deep, glorious breaths, ignoring Ethan’s question of, “okay, is this normal or something we should be worried about?” He wants nothing more than to rip off these clothes and mount Derek here and now, right in front of these two impotent alphas.

Stiles lifts up the hem of Derek’s sweatshirt so he can rub his hands all over the flat, hard planes of his omega’s stomach. He wants to feel it swell, grow fat and ripe with his seed. He’ll claim his omega and then bend him over and pump him so full he’ll have no choice but to bear the evidence of their mating.

Derek lets out a low, thrumming moan that crescendos to a delicious whimper.

Stiles nuzzles at the side of Derek’s neck, feeling the tension there when Derek turns his head to allow access. He’s boneless in Stiles’s grasp, rotating his hips in the smallest of circles and making Stiles’s cock throb.

“It’s okay,” Stiles babbles. “I’ll take good care of you. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll nurture the shit out of you. Yes, I will.”

“Gross,” Aiden says, making a face.

Stiles ignores him, going for the belt on Derek’s jeans only to realize it’s the stupid heat safety kind. He and Erica give them out to local high schools every other month. But right now Stiles hates that there’s a tight steel wire keeping Derek a locked combination away. Derek lets out a frustrated whimper and Stiles growls at the stupid device. He could always cut through the jeans, but the knives are in the kitchen and it’s--

“Wait,” Stiles grits out, biting his lip. He forces in three deep breaths, even though that means taking in three more lungfuls of pheromones. He savors it only a moment before he makes himself calm, visualizing the scent flowing through him like a wave. In and out, not touching or clinging, just a brief brush with brilliance.

When Stiles opens his eyes again, he still feels dizzy with the scent of mating, but he’s clear-headed enough. Aiden is in front of him, stance threatening, while Ethan leans back against the door, smirking. “You back with us, alpha?”

Stiles gulps, forcing a smile. Derek is chanting Stiles’s name under his breath like a prayer. It’s testing the limits of Stiles’s hard-won control.

“If you want me to unlock that belt, you’re going to have to step away,” snorts Aiden.

“Right, right,” Stiles replies. He hopes that the twins haven’t noticed his lapse in professionalism. “Sorry. I had to get the initial scent marking done. Things are a little more intense before bonding.”

“Pseudo-bonding, you mean,” Ethan corrects. He looks stern and skeptical. Stiles wants to punch him. But that’s just the hormones talking. In Ethan’s place, Stiles would be just as wary.

“Yeah. It’s just that the pre-bonding process is the same with a pseud as with a real bond,” Stiles tries.

Ethan doesn’t seem convinced.

“Look, dude, who’s the pro here? I got this. You two can make yourselves useful elsewhere. Call the clinic and ask for Kira Yukimura. Tell her I’m calling in that favor and give her directions over here. I was going to have Erica come too, but I think she’s working today, so we’ll make do. Just, um, stand here or do whatever it is you do. Don’t take the nose plugs out.”

Aiden snorts. “Like we would.” He points to his brother. “He’s gay and the boss is so not my type. His tits are too small.” It figures that Aiden would be one of those crazy, traditionalist alphas who sees female omegas as the height of attractiveness. Those wackos are just so ashamed of their tiny knots that they can’t bear to fuck someone who has a cock at all, even a knotless one.

“Ugh,” Stiles grimaces. Derek is melting against Stiles’s side, nuzzling at his neck and nipping at him seductively. Of course it’s working. Stiles can feel the knot stiffening under his skin, not swelling ... yet. Soon. The only problem is that Derek is heavy and he’s slowly leaning more and more of his bulk against Stiles. “Unlock him, before he flattens me like a pancake.”

Ethan still needs persuading, but Aiden takes a giant step into Derek’s space. That provokes a snarl and a clumsy attempt to hide behind Stiles.

“Dude! Don’t you know better than to approach an omega in heat like that? Especially one who has clearly already chosen a partner. God, brainless knothead alphas and--”

“8793,” Ethan spits. “Are you happy? Now go do what you’re paid to. Aiden will call Kira and I’ll be waiting right outside the door.”

Stiles’s inner alpha bristles at the thought of these two alphas skulking, despite their lack of interest. He reminds himself that he’s a professional, not Derek’s mate. It’s just the pre-bonding hormones talking. Body chemistry and loneliness. That’s all.

“Look, you ignorant little asshole. I don’t need to be supervised by you! I’ve been doing this for at least seven years. I’m known for my control and my ability to be gentle with patients in much worse physical condition than Mr. Greek Statue over here. So you can take your paternalistic, condescending--”

“Stiles,” Derek moans. “I really need you in me and they’re my employees. I don’t want them to see--” He chokes off, but Stiles doesn’t need him to continue. He’s here for Derek first. He should be the bigger man and not let the twins get to him.

“Shh--” Stiles soothes. Derek has his pride. That much has always been clear. Stiles is being an asshole and just embarrassing his omega. “It’s okay. Let’s head back to the bedroom and get you sorted out, okay?”

Derek nods. Stiles fixates for a moment on a bead of sweat that drips down the perfect curve of his throat and over his Adam’s apple. He can’t help himself and licks it away, as softly and as quickly as he can. Derek groans, but gets his feet under him and lets Stiles guide him back towards the bedroom.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Stiles hears Ethan ask his brother. “That didn’t seem very professional.” Stiles clenches his fists even though he wants to rage. He _is_ good at this damnit. It’s practically the _only_ thing he’s proud of in his life right now. Fuck Ethan for acting as though Stiles doesn’t know his shit.

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Aiden replies as Stiles shuffles Derek down the hallway. “It’s not like we could convince the boss to go for anyone else right now.”

“Do we really need them here?” Stiles complains to Derek, who seems more preoccupied with sliding a hand down Stiles’s pants.

“I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“Dude, this is seriously getting old. You banged me up a little, but it was an accident. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Especially you,” he leers, patting Derek playfully on the ass.

At least Derek is still with-it enough to roll his eyes. “My charming alpha.”

“Oh, come on, like anything I can say will lessen your burning desire to get my dick in you.”

“No, but I can regret the burning desire.”

Stiles laughs. He knows that he must be grinning like a dope, but it feels good to joke, like they’re friends, not two people fucking in the name of medicine.

When Stiles turns to close the door, he sees Ethan relax his protective stance. Maybe he’s not such an intrusive knothead after all. Aiden, though, Aiden is still definitely a jackass.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says once they’re alone and Stiles to fumbling at the heat safety belt with shaking hands. “I shouldn’t have waited. I made a fool out of myself back there.”

Stiles snorts. “No more than I did. I’ve never spent two heats in a row with the same omega. I didn’t realize it would be so intense.”

“It makes you crazy,” Derek acknowledges, reminding Stiles of all the revelations of last week. He rubs his hands through Stiles’s hair as Stiles kneels to pull his pants down. “I want you so much. You are all I could think about the past two days.”

“ _Two days_! You’ve been in pre-heat for two fucking days and you didn’t think to call me?”

“I always want to call you,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles had been nosing at Derek’s groin, sucking in the gorgeous scent trapped in his pubic hair, but he looks up sharply. “Really?”

Derek doesn’t respond. He’s completely lost to it, Stiles realizes. His pupils are blown wide and he’s burning up under Stiles’s palm. Derek is dripping slick down his inner thigh, whimpering softly. “All right, big guy, time to get you some release,” Stiles sighs. He’s dying to know what Derek meant, but it’s going to have to wait until Derek is a little more lucid.

Stiles leads Derek over to the bed, throwing the covers back and getting them both settled under them, with Derek on his side. Derek tries to turn, but Stiles placates him with kisses. First the nape of his neck, then a peck to his cheek, then down his back and to each spiral of his tattoo. Derek sighs contentedly, only to whimper when Stiles sucks on his earlobe.

“Stiles,” Derek moans. “Please, Stiles. Please. Be a good alpha. Please.”

“I _am_ a good alpha,” Stiles replies. “And I know you don’t like this position, but it’s better for you.”

“Wanna touch you,” Derek protests, squirming. He lets out a sudden throaty groan when Stiles finally starts fingering him. It’s only a distraction to keep Derek occupied while he pulls off his own clothes. “Wanna look at you.”

“You’ll be seeing plenty of me, Derek. Just, calm down. You’ll be a lot happier getting knotted in this position. Let me make you feel good.”

“I’ll be good for you, Stiles,” Derek begs, sounding manic. “I’ll let you do anything to me. I can be good. You’ll see.” A month ago, those words would have gone straight to Stiles’s dick, but now he pictures what Derek means by "good." It's a struggle to keep his fingers moving. He just wants to hold Derek, comfort him rather than do anything reminiscent of _her_.

“You’re already good.” Fuck it. Stiles turns Derek over so he can look into those soft green eyes. Derek immediately leans in for a kiss. It’s hungry and sloppy and so good that Stiles gets lost for a moment. “So beautiful,” he breathes when Derek pulls away, catching Stiles’s bottom lip between his teeth as he goes.

Stiles grabs the full, tight globes of Derek’s ass to drag him closer. Derek seems confused for a minute, but then Stiles insinuates himself between his legs.

He kisses everywhere he can reach, leaving a string of bite marks around Derek’s neck and down his chest -- the original omega collar.

“Please,” Derek whimpers.

Stiles knows what Derek wants, but he’s enjoying touching his omega too much. Derek’s skin, previously clammy and sticky, has gone smooth and dry and preternaturally soft. Stiles marks him wherever he can reach. He teases Derek with his stubble, what little there is of it. Dragging his chin across Derek’s swollen and sensitive nipples provokes a yowl. “Oh god, Stiles. Fuck. Do that again.”

“You’re not just beautiful,” Stiles continues as he teases Derek’s hole with the tip of his throbbing cock. “I mean, you are really, really gorgeous, but it’s not only that. You’re strong. You could clearly take me in a fight.” Derek looks immediately to the cast, but Stiles just shakes his head, grinning. “I could’ve done without the trip to the ER, sure. But I love that you could overpower me if you wanted to.”

Derek whimpers. “Omegas aren’t supposed to--”

“Omegas are supposed to do whatever makes them happy,” Stiles corrects. He smiles wickedly. “Like take my big, fat, juicy knot. That’s what you, want, isn’t it?”

Derek nods. “More than anything.”

Stiles lines himself up and then thrusts inside with one smooth motion. Derek lets out a breathless moan then wraps his legs around Stiles and rolls them over so that Stiles is completely on top. Derek lifts his legs up onto Stiles’s broad shoulders, deepening the angle even farther. It’s the procreative position. Stiles usually avoids it. Some patients don't have the mobility and others, like Derek, might feel claustrophobic.

Of course, claustrophobia is clearly the last thing on Derek’s mind, because he growls, “Come on, Stiles, fuck me. Like you mean it.”

Stiles snorts. “Dude, I always mean it.” It’s hard to get the leverage he wants with his wrist, so Stiles slows it down, focusing on long, deep thrusts that have Derek screaming. Derek is so wet that Stiles slides into his comforting heat with almost no resistance.

“Stiles. God, please, _Stiles_ ,” Derek whimpers.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” Stiles continues. “So perfect for me. I’m going nice and slow and you’re going to take it, aren’t you? You’re going to take my cock and my knot and my seed and you’re going to love every second of it.”

Derek whimpers.

“Look at you,” Stiles continues. He’s normally quiet with his clients when he’s not checking in with them to make sure they’re comfortable. They’re not paying to hear him babble. But with Derek looking up at him with those wide, adoring eyes, he feels like the floodgates have opened. He’s not sure he could stop talking even if he wanted to. “Look at those beautiful eyes and that amazing mouth and all these muscles. You’re great, you know that?”

Derek shakes his head.

“No, don’t give me that.” Stiles hates seeing Derek’s confidence shaken like this. It just doesn’t seem like his natural state. A man like Derek is supposed to be regal, proud to inhabit his strong body and aristocratic features. “Fuck that. You’re wonderful. And, god, you feel so good. You’re so tight and wet and you make the most amazing little sounds. I can’t imagine a more perfect omega.”

Derek is flushed with heat and his cock is straining so hard, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if he popped a knot. It doesn’t matter that it’s biologically impossible. But as much as Derek is responding to the praise, there’s a pained expression on his face. “No, Stiles. I don’t deserve--”

Stiles really doesn’t need this right in the middle of the most amazing sex he’s ever had, but it needs to be said. He slows down his thrusts and then stops altogether, nestled deep inside Derek. He groans and steadies himself with his good hand.

Derek looks worried, but Stiles kisses the little furrow between his brows. “I know she hurt you, but that wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to do anything to be a good omega. You’re already amazing. You’re beautiful and sarcastic and you care so much. I’m just some guy you’re paying, but you’ve gone out of your way to help me. You’re fair and I know you’d be loyal. You were good to her, I bet. You’re so good to me.”

“I--” Stiles can see the self-loathing rise in those expressive eyes, but he won’t let it. He leans down, folding Derek even more so that they can kiss deeply. Stiles pours everything he has into the kiss. He knows it has to be spectacular. It has to be persuasive, because Derek needs to forget everything that isn’t them, here, now. He needs to realize that in this moment, he’s omega and Stiles is alpha and nothing else matters. Nothing could make them happier.

“You were good to her. That’s why you stayed, even when you shouldn’t have.”

Derek looks away. The shy way he melts under Stiles’s scrutiny only serves to make him more attractive.

“Hey,” Stiles says. He cups Derek’s cheek. Derek is panting now, flushed from heat and the the way the knot is expanding and contracting, pushing up against his prostate and then retreating when Derek doesn’t lock down around it. Derek’s eyes are too green and too beautiful, tinged with mystery and as sad as they are enthralling. “Look at me.”

“I _am_ looking at you,” Derek breathes. Stiles grins. Of course, even in the middle of a bonding heat, Derek finds a way to be contrary.

“Okay. Keep looking at me because I need you to listen. Like really listen, because this is important.”

“You fucking me is important,” Derek complains wiggling his hips, but his eyes are glassy and he _is_ hanging on Stiles’s every word. Stiles can tell.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles gives him a particularly hard thrust just to remind him that he hasn’t forgotten about that. The knot swells, solidifying just enough to catch on Derek’s rim as Stiles resumes his torturous slide in and out. It’s on the tipping point. Stiles is certified in Advanced Knot Control down to 2mm. Usually he uses it to make things easy on patients with physical restrictions, but now he holds it right on the edge. A millimeter more and they'll lock, but right now he's just teasing at Derek's sensitive rim.

Derek bites his lip and keens.

“Listen. You’re a good omega. It wasn’t your fault.”

Derek squirms on the knot, still trying to shake his head. Stiles tangles his fingers in Derek’s hair, physically stopping him from disagreeing.

“I don’t care what you say. I don’t care about any of what happened before. You’re with me now and I want you. I’m going to claim you and you’re going to agree that you’re worthy of it.”

“Stiles--” Derek sobs. The knot has expanded just that small amount more, but Derek is still taking it like a champ. It’ll probably be sore later, but now it feels like relentless, crushing heat. Stiles thinks that if he doesn’t lock soon he might just pass out from the incandescent pleasure of it.

“Look at me!” Stiles roars, throwing a little alpha authority into his voice, the way they taught him to focus an out-of-control omega in heat.

Derek’s head snaps to attention. His eyes are still glassy and lost-looking, but he focuses in on Stiles like Stiles is his last hope.

“Derek, you deserve to be loved,” Stiles says with as much authority as he can muster, considering he might just collapse from having his brain squeezed out through his knot any second now.

Derek’s eyes go wide and then his features twist into a desperate mask of awe and pleasure. When Derek opens his eyes again, he looks surprised and a little put out by his unexpected orgasm. Stiles would laugh, if the fluttering of Derek’s internal muscles weren’t tugging at his knot, locking them. He sinks into Derek a final time, gratefully.

As he spills wave after wave into his omega, Stiles wonders if Derek can feel it all sloshing around in there. He wants to keep coming until Derek is so full of his seed that his belly will curve out in a pantomime of fecundity. He wants to plug him up and keep him full until his body has no choice but to accept his alpha’s seed. He wants to hold him and kiss him and keep him forever.

“Mmmm, that was good,” Stiles breathes.

He pulls back enough so that Derek can lower his legs and wrap them around Stiles’s hips. He rocks them back and forth a little, shifting the knot inside him and making Stiles give one last, desperate spurt. Stiles collapses down onto his omega with a sigh, their foreheads touching as they both recover their breaths.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods. “You?”

“‘Course.” Stiles is comfortable, sated, knotted inside an omega that his body is beginning to see as his own. He thinks he could die now and be more or less content with his life.

“So, is this all part of the treatment? Do you throw in the self-esteem boost for free?” Derek asks.

Stiles punches his shoulder half-heartedly. “Way to ruin the afterglow, asshole.”

Derek laughs, but insecurity is painted all over his face.

“Why is it so hard to believe that I really like you?” Stiles whines. If he’s honest with himself, he could more than like Derek, if given the opportunity. Not that he would get it.

Derek shrugs.

“This is why you need a therapist.”

“I got one,” Derek grumbles, like it's being tortured out of him.

“Really?” Stiles asks. He was expecting Derek to put up more of a fight.

“I’ve known something is wrong with me for a long time. It didn’t seem _fixable_. What’s the point in spending hours exposing your psyche to a stranger if it’s not going to do anything?”

“And now?” Stiles asks. So far as he’s concerned, a person doesn’t gain confidence in the psychotherapeutic institution overnight.

Derek shrugs. “I still don’t think it’ll work. It’s just talking. But if it did work…. I feel like I have more to gain now.”

“Good. Good. Derek, that’s really great.” Stiles can’t keep the proud grin off his face. _He_ did that. _He_ convinced Derek to fight for himself. That’s more than professional satisfaction right there. That’s winning at being a friend and an alpha and an all around awesome person.

“You’d be happy, right? If I didn’t have to do the procedure?”

“So happy,” Stiles replies.

Derek’s smile is so gorgeous that Stiles can’t help but lean down and kiss him. It’s not all that professional, but he thinks he could be happy kissing Derek for the rest of his life. They make out languorously, like teenagers in the back of Stiles’s good ‘ole blue Jeep, scrapped now.

Stiles wonders if this is what it’s like to date an omega. Maybe all those stupid traditionalists are right, after all. He doesn’t think it’s sacred or whatever those wingnuts believe. He thinks people should have to right to fuck who they choose, but maybe there is something unique about the alpha/omega pair. Maybe what he could have with the right omega could far outstrip even the best relationship with another alpha.

The knot eventually deflates, but Derek is still intent on keeping Stiles close. He rearranges them so that Stiles is tucked against his side, with his head and the cast cushioned by Derek’s strong chest.

They both groan at the knock on the door, but the heat has been sated enough that Stiles can stand on wobbling legs. He doesn’t bother to put any clothes on. He’s used to nudity in his line of work. Aiden looks disgusted, Ethan slightly interested, but Kira flushes high on her cheeks. It's like watching people have sex isn’t literally in her job description.

A soft noise behind him has Stiles turning to find Derek standing with defensive bluster. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps bulging. He’s managed to wrap himself in a sheet that Stiles thought he’d lost behind the bed weeks ago. It looks like a toga.

“Hi, Stiles,” Kira says with an awkward wave. “And you must be Derek.”

Derek grunts at her. It would be hilarious if this weren’t the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the gauntlet of awkwardness they have scheduled for today.

“Let me just get my stuff out of the car and then we can get started,” she says with her patented patient-friendly smile. “I don’t have too much time. We’re busy this afternoon, so I need to be back at the clinic by eleven.”

“Is that enough time?” Derek asks, frowning.

“Oh, that’s plenty. I’m only here to supervise the psuedo-bonding bite. After that Stiles will see to your heat as usual. He’s one of the best and you’re in good physical condition so you definitely won’t need my help for that. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Derek snaps.

“Okay. It’s better if we do this when the hormone levels are low. You were just knotted, right?”

Derek nods, but Stiles can tell from his stiff stance and the defiant tilt of his chin that she’s making him uncomfortable.

“Perfect. Clinically, the recommended time is at the beginning of your heat after one initial knotting. No need to worry. It’ll be quick and easy. Just let me grab my stuff!”

Kira bounces off with a brilliant smile.

“Is she even old enough to be a nurse, let alone finished with Med School?” Derek grumbles.

“Don’t be mislead by the Iron Man scrubs and the dimples,” Stiles replies. “Kira is older than I am. She’s just, um, kind of relentlessly positive.”

“Great,” Derek complains, collapsing back onto the bed.

Stiles throws himself down next to him. He ends up running his fingers through Derek’s soft, dark hair, with Derek leaning into it like a cat. Stiles tells himself that it’s to comfort his omega, but deep down he’s nervous. He’s never done a pseudo-bonding bite before, but everything he’s ever read says that they’re intense. And that’s just between strangers. He actually knows Derek and likes him.

“It’ll be fine,” Stiles affirms, more to himself than Derek.

“It’ll be embarrassing.”

“That too. But I think I warned you about that when we started this whole thing.”

“Yeah.”

“It would be less embarrassing if we could keep Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber out of it.”

Derek snorts.

“You won’t hurt me. I trust you.”

“Fine,” Derek says with such gross finality that Stiles curls around him tighter, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Kira returns moments later carrying a large black duffel bag. Aiden looks like he's dying to help the ‘poor little female omega’ like the misogynist douche that he is, but Kira remains oblivious.

“You two can go wait outside with the car,” Stiles says.

Ethan and Aiden both look to Derek, who nods. His skin is starting to flush with heat again. Stiles lowers his nose to the scent glands around Derek’s neck and just breathes.

“Okay, you two, up.” Kira says brightly. She swats at Stiles’s hip until he moves off of Derek. “The best position is to do it like doggies.” Stiles has tried to get Kira to realize that ‘like doggies’ and ‘doggie-style’ are not functionally equivalent, but she never listens.

Derek gets up on his knees and arches his back in fucking lordosis. Stiles lets out a whimper. His knot is still sensitive from the last tying and not at all ready to swell so suddenly.

“Hold your horses,” Kira says, yanking out what looks like enough wires to win a science fair. “We’ve got to fit you with a few monitors. Sorry, this part is really awkward.”

“You know, hanging a lampshade on it doesn’t actually make it less awkward,” Stiles grumbles.

Kira blushes. “It said in my patient skills manual that sometimes acknowledging the ridiculousness of the situation can help patients connect with a physician’s humanity.”

Stiles almost feels bad for calling her on it, until he notices Derek subtly smirking. Stiles is kind of in love with Derek's inner asshole.

“Um, well, okay, I guess we should start with the blood pressure cuff?” Kira squeaks.

She steps right up to Derek, making him flinch.

“Is that a question?” Stiles asks at the same time Derek says, “is it okay if he does it?”

“Sure. If you’re more comfortable, Stiles can put everything on you and I’ll hook it up.”

Stiles is familiar with most of the heat monitoring equipment. He’s an expert at putting it back on when something inevitably gets detached. He and Kira work together like a well-oiled machine, while Derek grinds his teeth with increasing ferocity. When Stiles tries to give him a comforting pat on the back, he finds that the smooth skin has gone cool and clammy.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers, cupping Derek’s cheek. “Are you okay?”

Derek stares straight ahead, jaw clenched.

“Derek, if this is going to be a problem for you, you need to tell me. We don’t want another accident.” Stiles hates bringing up his wrist, but he needs Derek to feel as comfortable as possible, for both their sanities.

Concern for Stiles seems to snap Derek out of it. “It feels like I’m being tied down. She did that sometimes. I don’t like it. But I can handle it.”

Stiles turns to Kira in horror. “Is all this stuff really necessary? It’s not like we have to worry about him having a heart attack.”

Kira bites her lip. “I guess the main device that I use is the Galvanic Skin Response Meter. It’s the most reliable when it comes to letting me know when to end the bite. But we should keep as much as you’re comfortable with, just in case.” She smiles at Derek in a way that she must think is reassuring. It probably _is_ reassuring to most people, but Derek just scowls.

“Just use the one, if that’s all you need,” Derek orders. Stiles is once again acutely aware of the fact that Derek is used to getting what he wants, at least in the professional context. He has employees whose only job is to order other employees to do the things Derek doesn't have time to order them to do.

“Well, technically, the Journal of Obstetric, Gynecological, and Cloacal Medicine recommends--”

Derek waves her off casually. “Just that one.”

Kira looks to Stiles for support but he just shrugs at her. Derek doesn't need any other monitors and Stiles refuses to do anything to further traumatize him. He carefully uncuffs the blood pressure cuff and hands it back to Kira.

“Okay, well, that just leaves the collar.”

Derek is up and off the bed in a heartbeat. He seems stuck between trying to loom over Kira and hide behind Stiles.

Kira, for her part, stands there awkwardly. She's holding a large strap, lined with soft, faux-sheepskin material and attached to a strange triangular foam cone.

“What the hell is that?” Derek grumbles.

“This is a bite collar.”

“Is it supposed to be that--” he trails off, motioning to the general clunkiness of it.

Stiles stares at the pale, hospital blue of the cone warily. He’s practiced with them before in training. The omega’s skin is sterilized where the bite will take place and then the cone is strapped down, exposing only that small part. That way, the alpha can only reach enough skin to get the shallowest possible bite. And that’s just the omega portion of the whole ridiculous contraption.

The worst part is the awful hood that Kira tosses to Stiles. It looks like a luchador mask, with a carefully controlled opening at the mouth and slits for eyes. It’s outfitted with thick woven straps that run across the face and attach to handholds behind the head. The mask is used pull the alpha off if the bite goes on too long. There are even two small contact points against the neck that will deliver an electric shock if needed.

For a pseudo-bond, the trick is to bite just long enough for the omega to recognize the presence of an interested alpha. A true bond forms when the alpha’s genetic markers seep in and claim the omega and the omega's markers trigger the alpha in turn. Biting for just a short time forms a generic bond - a blank check with the particulars to be filled in later. A pseud will dissipate in a few months rather than the two years it could take for an omega to regain fertility after a bond breach.

Derek stares at the collar as though it might jump up and bite _him_. “No,” he says.

“I know it looks a little intimidating,” Kira offers with a strained smile, “but it’s nice and soft. And it’s Stiles who has to wear the uncomfortable part. If you do it like a doggie, you won’t even see it.”

Instead of arguing, Derek levels a desperate, pleading look at Stiles. “I thought I could, but I don’t think I can.”

“Hey, hey,” Stiles tries to soothe, but Derek is stiff and stubbornly immovable.

“Can you give us a moment?” Stiles asks Kira, who nods and goes to hide (unfortunately ending up in the bathroom in her haste to exit). Stiles cups Derek’s cheek, which is once again feverish with heat. “It’s okay. She’s right. All the indignity of this thing will be suffered by me. You just have to look straight ahead. I’ll be with you the whole time, nothing we haven’t done before.”

Derek shakes his head. “I want it to be just us. That _thing_ is too foreign. I don’t know if I can stay calm. I might hurt you. You should just tie me down if you’re going to use it.”

Stiles balks, “Derek, I’m not tying you down." He's not doing anything that _she_ did. "Kira will be right here. You won’t hurt me.”

“No.”

“Derek, this is recommended treatment for a reason. If I bite you too long, we’ll be bonded. You don’t want that.” Stiles’s heart is beating out of his chest. He knows that he would never be allowed to bond Derek for real. Still, that beautiful patch of skin, the epicenter of ripe, sweetness just above the gland … it makes his knot twitch.

“So what? I read the pamphlets you gave me,” Derek argues. “If you bite me too long, I’ll have to wait a while before taking another alpha. But I don’t want another alpha. Whether the bond is real doesn’t matter.”

“It'll be hard for me to get other clients if I have a bonded scent.” Not that Stiles would. He’s gay and with his new business getting off the ground, he won’t have to worry about a clean bonding record for clients.

“That’s fine. I can pay damages if something goes wrong. I don’t want the collar. Please, Stiles.” If he weren't in heat, Stiles thinks, Derek would never beg. Stiles is glad, because he doesn't think he could ever say no to Derek when he looks at him like that.

Stiles takes the deep breath. It’s almost impossible to stay rational when Derek smells so invitingly decadent.

“Derek, the doctors--”

“No. Stiles. I want you and only you. She can have the GSR meter and that’s it.”

“Fine,” Stiles agrees. “I’ll talk to her.”

Kira is sitting on top of the marble counter kicking her feet idly. She looks like a bored kid hiding from her parent's dinner party.

“He doesn’t want it,” Stiles sighs.

“You explained to him--”

“He knows the risks of forming a more permanent bond. He doesn’t care.”

Kira stares at Stiles for a long moment. Stiles hates how fast she can go from cutesy to serious. “What about you? Do you care?”

Stiles realizes how hard he could be making things, considering how much he already likes Derek. If they bond, weaning himself from Derek’s presence will be even more difficult. But Derek had agreed that they were friends, so it’s not as though he’ll have to go cold turkey.

“I’m not going to bite him a second longer than necessary,” he resolves.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this, Stiles.”

Stiles is frustrated. It’s probably just the intoxicating smell of Derek’s heat and the fact that he’s trapped here in a bathroom with an omega he’s _not_ attracted to instead of buried balls-deep in the one he wants. “I’m good at my job, Kira. Trust me on this. Derek has had a hard time. I _need_ to make this good for him. He's been through enough.”

Kira’s eyes bulge in surprise. “Stiles, that’s all the more reason why we should be following the procedure. If something--”

“You owe me, Kira Yukimura.”

Stiles hates to bring up the time he helped disappear this alpha who was harassing Kira’s family. Really all he’d done was use his dad’s pass codes to pull up the guy's immigration records. Then he'd made a few phone calls to Japan. Then he tipped off one of the San Francisco Yakuza bosses about the location of a disappeared asset. And then he’d gotten the hell out of Dodge when the Nogitsune family tried to offer him a job. Okay, maybe it was actually a pretty big favor. And Kira owes him, damn it.

“Fine. If that’s how you want it. If I do this, we’re even.”

“Even-steven,” Stiles agrees with a bitter laugh.

When they re-enter the room, Derek is splayed out wantonly, apparently no longer concerned about his nudity. He writhes, rubbing precum and omega slick all over the silky 2000 thread count sheets. It’s obscene.

Kira makes an undignified squeaking noise. Stiles is enthralled by the way the muscles on Derek’s back and his glorious ass clench and release.

“Ready?” Derek asks, looking over his shoulder expectantly. Other than the GSR monitor clipped to his wrist and the conductive pads on his hand, he’s completely nude.

Stiles gulps. He looks at Kira, who nods to him. Then he immediately forgets about her in his rush to tackle Derek to the bed.

Stiles has trouble putting pressure on his bad wrist, but Derek doesn’t seem to care. He is more than capable of supporting their weight when Stiles wraps both arms around him and enters him in one quick thrust.

Derek lets out a low, animalistic moan. He arches his back, which exposes the long line of his neck. Stiles nuzzles at the space just beneath his jaw and to the left of his Adam’s apple. It's where his unique, utterly delicious scent is most concentrated.

Derek pants harshly, a deep rumble against Stiles’s ribcage. Stiles himself gets lost in the sensations. Derek’s skin feels better than the expensive sheets. It feels better than _anything_. Stiles’s entire body is electrified with potential. In the back of his mind he remembers his training -- an omega in heat can make the alpha feel euphoric, invulnerable. The right scent can make an alpha lose his head. But Stiles isn’t that kind of alpha.

He wants to tell Derek how good he smells. He wants to write a soliloquy about the play of muscles over his shoulder blades. He wants to beg Derek to take his seed and just … make a baby. Be a good omega and _breed_.

Stiles’s hips have a mind of their own. He pistons into his omega roughly, regularly. His face is mashed into the side of Derek’s neck and he mouths at the gland like a baby beginning to teethe.

Derek cries out as the knot starts to form again. He leans back on his haunches, grabbing both of Stiles’s arms around his chest so that Stiles can thrust up into him, teeth slotting into that perfect place and clamping down.

It feels better than anything Stiles has ever experienced before. It’s the endorphin rush of orgasm plus warmth, safety, being held by a loved one, being adored by a crowd, being at peace while life stills and the universe breathes. It’s owning and being owned, everything slotting into perfect place. Their scents, so good together, mingle and merge. Stiles has never smelled anything so glorious. He wants to bathe in an ocean of _them_ , hold onto this omnipotent feeling and never let go. This isn’t just any omega beneath him. This is _Derek_ and Stiles is making him his own.

“Stiles!” someone is shouting.

Stiles doesn’t care.

“Stiles! Let go!”

Stiles tries to throw off the hands that are yanking at him, pulling out tufts of thick brown hair.

Derek’s blood is thick on his tongue. It might as well be ambrosia, chocolatl, for all it tastes of heaven. He will remember this taste for the rest of his life. It’s so uniquely _Derek_.

Then there’s pain. Sudden. There’s a pop at his jaw, a twisting at his shoulder, a ringing in his ears, and an arm around his throat. Stiles groans at the loss of Derek’s sweet flavor, straining against the body behind him.

“Stop it, Stiles! You need to get control of yourself.”

Derek is whimpering. “Don’t stop,” he chants. “Stiles, please don’t stop. Breed me. Claim me. Keep me.”

But Kira’s grip is firm. She’s behind Stiles, leveraging his upper body by the burning ball of pain in his arm where she has it twisted behind his back. She’s careful, however, to leave his lower body where he and Derek are tied.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” she says.

Stiles licks the last of Derek’s blood from his lips, but he’s rapidly sobering. He’s a professional heat therapist and he just almost completed a full bond with a client. If Kira hadn’t been there he definitely would have.

He collapses back against his savior. “Oh god.”

Derek is completely incoherent. He’s moaning, rocking himself on Stiles’s knot. Stiles has never seen an omega so lost to his instincts before. Then again, he’s never bonded anyone.

“Can I let you go?” Kira asks. “Are you going to behave?”

Stiles nods. His senses are coming back to him slowly. He takes in the disheveled room: Kira’s harsh breaths as she relaxes behind him, Derek still looking flushed and smelling like nirvana.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles offers. “I had no idea it would be like that.”

Kira glares at him in consternation. “Stiles, what the hell? What were you even thinking? It was good what you did for my family, but if this kind of breach of professional ethics gets back to the Medical Licensing Board, I’m--”

“It’s fine, Kira,” Stiles pleads. “Derek wanted this. He’s a good guy. He knows it’s not your fault. He won’t go after you. Whatever happened. It’s on the two of us.”

“I pulled you off in time to stop a full bonding. I guess that martial arts training is good for something. But you had a deep bite for at least five extra seconds. I’ll review the literature when I get home, but, Stiles, your scents have mixed. It’s more than just a pseudo-bond. We can both lose out licenses for this if anyone in the industry realizes that Derek is a client. The way you two smell--”

“You won’t be implicated, Kira. I’ll be careful, but if someone does find out, I’ll take responsibility. I promise. Pinky swear.”

Kira still looks wary. “Okay, Stiles, but this was…. I don’t know how you talked me into this. It was so irresponsible. Oh god.”

She tosses her remaining equipment into the bag, motioning for Stiles to hand her the GSR meter, which is now flashing like crazy. Stiles yanks out a little of Derek’s hair with the leads, but the omega is too blissed out to care.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Kira snaps. “But it isn’t professional and it isn’t _right_. You’re one of the most experienced therapists I know. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles sighs. “I just…. It was instinct, okay? I thought I didn’t have much alpha in me, but apparently I do. At least for him.”

Kira sighs, looking piteous all of a sudden. “Oh, Stiles.”

“It doesn’t matter. Look, get out of here. Go back to the clinic. Tell the twins everything is fine. I’ll take care of it from here.”

“We fucked up, Stiles.”

“I know.”

Stiles rests a moment after Kira’s hasty departure. He wants to kick himself. Maybe he’d punch a wall if he weren’t still tied to Derek. He’s supposed to be better than this. He’s supposed to be _more_ than mere instinct.

“Where’d you go?” Derek complains, fumbling around to try to find Stiles’s hands.

Stiles sighs, guiding them down to lay on their sides and wrapping Derek in the tightest embrace he can manage. Derek’s new, bonded smell is irresistible, so he nuzzles at Derek’s neck over the bond mark. He can't stop himself from licking up the last of the blood before putting on the dressing that Kira had tossed him before departing.

“Did you hear any of that?”

Derek hums contentedly. “You bit me.”

“Yeah, about that…. I really fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You bonded me,” Derek says. It’s not a question.

“Um, basically. It’s not a full bond. I mean, you probably won’t have to go the whole two years. We can stop seeing each other now and it should wear off in six months tops.” Stiles is pulling that figure out of his ass, but he can’t bear to tell Derek that it might be an actual bond because of his recklessness.

“It’s okay,” Derek says, turning around just enough so that he can press their lips together. “It was amazing.”

“Derek, that’s your heat talking. God, I never should have let an omega in full estrus convince me into anything.”

“It’s fine, Stiles. You’ve got your knot in me, but I want to feel _more_.”

Stiles sighs. He feels like he’s getting swept under. The pheromone cloud of their bonding is impossibly thick and one knotting slides into the next. Stiles has no idea how many times they make love. When he wakes up three days later, thirsty and covered in spunk and omega slick, Derek is staring down at him, a bemused smile on his face.

“Were you watching me sleep?” Stiles groans. He shoves at Derek’s stupidly solid thigh. “Creeper.”

Derek pats Stiles on the head. He’s wearing an alpha-style suit and looks far too energized for an omega coming out of three days of intense heat. Stiles wonders if maybe that’s just what being _in shape_ actually feels like.

“I’m going to work.” Derek leans down and presses a kiss to the side of Stiles’s mouth. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Stiles looks up at him, dumbfounded and a little awestruck. Derek looks even more attractive than usual, joyous and lighter somehow.

"Tonight?" Stiles asks, still sleepy and disbelieving.

Derek’s confidence evaporates in a moment. “Oh, right. We just went through a heat. I don’t remember what Marin put in your contract, but you’re probably tired. If you want a night off--”

Stiles shrugs, stretching languorously. “You’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“I was completely unethical and bit you for longer than I was supposed to. We have more than a pseudo bond. Not medically recommended.”

“I told you I didn’t care." Derek grins. "I’m happy you did. It feels good. I’m completely cut off from her now.”

“What?” Stiles sits bolt upright. “You separated from you ex-wife seven years ago. You shouldn’t still have any bond to her after not seeing her for that long.”

Derek looks sheepish.

“You’ve seen her?”

“She’s in maximum security. She doesn’t have any family and I--”

Stiles boggles for a second. He knew Derek had issues, but to still see someone who had abused him and murdered in his name? Maybe it’s not just ethically that Stiles fucked up. He should have known that Derek was suffering that kind of attachment syndrome before he fucking bonded him.

“I didn’t smell her on you,” he says, for lack of anything that’s not an accusation.

“It was lingering. My doctor said it wouldn’t affect my scent or my ability to form a new bond. It was just a feeling of loyalty. Occasionally arousal, when I’ve visited her. I, um, hadn’t been with anyone since Jennifer. I guess you know that from my file. But this is great, Stiles! I’m done with her now. Thank you.”

Derek leans down and wraps his arms around Stiles. He still smells like everything wonderful in the world, but it sends a chill down Stiles’s spine. There’s definitely a part of him that wants Derek much more than a therapist should want a client, but that part needs to quiet the hell down.

Stiles can’t be a replacement for an abusive alpha. He can’t be a surrogate for Derek’s weird attachment issues. He took that stupid oath, even though he’s not a doctor. He didn’t think anything of it at the time, but …

First, do no harm.

“I’ll see you tonight?” Derek asks, looking uncertain.

Stiles should probably say no.

But Derek’s scent is tinged with hope and his eyes are luminescent with happiness.

“Sure,” Stiles says.

He’s going to hell. He’s pretty sure he knows all about this hand basket.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek hash it out, but there are still some red flags. Scott has news.

By the time evening rolls around, Stiles has mostly succeeded in ignoring the problem. He knows he should be calling the professional helpline for the American Association of Licensed Heat and Sexual Therapists. He should talk to Deaton. Or Scott, in the very least. Even scouring the internet, as usual, would be better than marathoning Star Trek and ignoring the problem. _Captain Kirk would find a way out of this,_ he thinks.

He tries to tell himself that it’ll be okay. Derek was just high on bonding hormones. Yes, he had some disgusting co-dependency with his ex-wife, but they _are_ divorced. And it’s kind of nice, to not let her rot alone in prison. Except Stiles is the son of a town Sheriff. He believes there are good guys and bad guys and Derek’s ex is a bad guy. She deserved the entire weight of the justice system slamming down on her like a tsunami.

 _Then again, maybe if you love someone…_ he thinks. Stiles has never let himself love like that. He’s never had a desperate, passionate love that would move him to break all the rules. On one hand, he’s terrified of losing control. On the other, he can’t help but wonder if people like Derek have it better. Maybe loving someone that much makes up for the sad sack that follows.

Stiles remembers just in time that the Giants are playing tonight. He flips the TV on and then pulls on the omega-style apron he inherited from his oma. He can almost pretend he’s a house omega in the 1950s, puttering around the kitchen waiting for his alpha. Stiles would like that, he thinks. It would be good to not have to worry if he’s achieving enough or living his life the way a respectable alpha should. He would like to have his sole responsibility narrow down to pleasing his alpha and caring for his children.

Derek takes longer than usual, so Stiles is cleaning up when Derek comes bursting through the door. Stiles can see a Victor’s Secret bag swinging next to his briefcase as he strides past, pausing only to check the score. Giants: 1; Dodgers: 4.

Stiles is setting the burgers down when Derek emerges, not in his usual Trojans sweatpants and tight grey tank top. Instead, Derek is wearing tight black lycra shorts so short that they might as well be underwear. The omega style collar on his equally tight purple top is so low cut that Stiles can see Derek waxed his chest, along with his legs and his beard.

Stiles is momentarily distracted by the bulge in Derek’s shorts, but then he bursts out in surprised laughter.

Hurt flashes lightning-quick on Derek’s features, replaced by his usual scowling indignation. “What?”

“You look ridiculous,” Stiles giggles. He’s used to omegas in similar outfits. He's even let his gaze follow them onto the BART or jerked off to them in a rare moment of indulging heterosexual inclinations. But this is _Derek_ , whom he’s only ever seen in alpha-style power suits and gender-neutral loungewear. His broad, muscled shoulders spill awkwardly out of the delicate omega-style collar. The mating bite is a lurid bruise that brings out the sickly purple of the shirt. And the straps of the lace camisole he’s wearing underneath are too fragile for his tough bearing . But what stands out the most is how _uncomfortable_ Derek is in this outfit. He’s just plain stiff instead of his usual coiled grace.

“I mean, you’re still one of the most attractive omega’s I’ve ever met,” Stiles continues. “But this just isn’t _you_.”

Derek scrounges up a muted grin. “You don’t like it?”

“Do _you_?” Stiles demands.

“It’s not uncomfortable. I just wanted--” he finishes in an impotent shrug.

Stiles keeps staring as Derek stutters helplessly.

Eventually, Derek lowers his eyes. “You’re right.”  He sits down on the couch like it might as well be made of molten lava. He doesn’t even move when, on the TV, Ryu hits one of their guys with a pitch!

“What the hell?!” Stiles shouts, agitated. It’s Peavy. This will not stand.

Derek flinches, looking up at Stiles, confused.

Stiles gestures to the screen. “Pitcher on pitcher violence, dude! I mean, the American League is full of pussies, hiding behind the DH, but _come on_ , Peavy should be a protected asset!” He doesn’t mention that Peavy is one of the rare omegas in pro baseball. That might be insensitive.

Stiles throws himself down onto the couch next to Derek, sprawling out half on top of Derek in his waxed glory, who accommodates him with a grunt.

“So,” Stiles says, after the announcers have finished with their ridiculous misogynistic commentary. "What’s up with all this?” He motions to Derek’s new hairless, over-the-top omega appearance. So much lycra isn’t even age-appropriate, let alone at Derek’s level of dignity.

Derek clenches his jaw as though he can keep the truth in with enough application of force.

It’s not that Stiles doesn’t _know_ , deep down, exactly what’s going on here, but Derek has to _say_ it. Stiles will stick to his denial until then.

“I thought,” Derek replies, suddenly defiant, “that I would impress you.”

Stiles snorts. “You’re impressive enough as you are.”

“But I could be better,” Derek insists.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to encourage inappropriate attachment, but he can't hurt Derek’s self-esteem. And he certainly doesn’t want Derek to think that Stiles doesn’t _want_ him. Both because that’s not true and because Stiles may have been harboring a twisted hope that maybe one day they could be together.

“I’m wearing your mark now,” Derek elaborates. He rubs at the wound until Stiles is afraid it might split open again. “A good omega should honor the alpha that claimed him.”

Stiles doesn’t know how to respond, so he focuses on his first aid training. The wound is looking exposed and swollen. Stiles gulps. He’s always been a little squeamish when it comes to fresh blood. Dead bodies and deformity are a-okay, but an open wound is an invitation to an embarrassing faint. “You should still have a bandage on that. It could get infected.”

Derek’s shoulders slump. “You don’t want me to display it? During my heat, you said--”

Stiles’s inner alpha is proud of the way his teeth marks punch into the soft skin of Derek’s neck. As much as he loves evidence of his claim, he hates the vulnerability of Derek's exposed shoulders, the delicacy of his collarbones.

Stiles turns off the game, taking a moment to settle himself with a reassuring hand on Derek’s thigh.

“Look, there’s clearly a conversation we need to have. Like, things are fucked up and I know you don’t see that. How could you be expected to? None of this is your fault and I don’t want to hurt you--”

Derek makes the smallest gasp. Stiles’s isn’t even sure how he heard it, but it stops him in his tracks. “You don’t want me,” Derek says, matter-of-fact. He stares straight forward at the empty screen.

“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” There isn’t an answer. The only answer is that Stiles fucked up and he has no clue how to fix it.

Derek’s facial muscles twitch, minutely. Stiles can’t tell if it’s a wince or a scowl or the beginning of tears.

“Fine,” Stiles sighs. “I’m just going to lay it all out there, okay? This is so incredibly unprofessional, but I have no idea what to do in this situation, so I’m just going to tell you everything.”

Derek nods. His face stays stone-still, but his eyes are imploring.

“I do want you, more than I probably should as a professional. And we’re friends. I like you. If we met under any other circumstances, you would be way out of my league, but I would kill to date you.” It feels good, like the vice around his chest is unlocking, key by key. “But I’m your therapist, not your alpha. Do you understand what that means?”

Derek hangs his head. “Yes.”

“Really? Because you don’t doll yourself up to see someone who you pay to have sex with you.”

“You said I was good,” Derek replies. “You said I would be good for you.”

Stiles cups Derek’s cheek. “You are. You’re wonderful. I swear. I just wanted you to see yourself the way I do. I didn’t mean to lead you on.” Except, didn’t he? Didn’t he say those things because he wanted to let Derek know how _he_ feels? Derek has a therapist now. They could have talked. Stiles could have been part of a treatment plan instead of going off half-cocked. He thought he was doing what was best for Derek, but now he’s not so sure.

“So I’m good, just not good enough for your mark,” Derek states. Stiles hates the toneless, resigned thud of his voice.

Stiles shakes his head. “Of course you’re good enough for my mark! But you’re missing the point. This so isn’t about me and what I want. It’s about you. You’re my client. You’ve been sexually and emotionally abused, whether you’re ready to admit it or not. You--”

“I’m not abused. I told you, Jennifer--”

“We can agreed to disagree on that for now. The point is, you came to me because you hate your heats enough to chop your ovaries out. You needed a pro because you didn’t want a relationship and you definitely were not ready for an alpha. Remember that?”

Derek nods.

“We didn’t meet at a bar, where I could’ve put my kick ass moves on you. I don’t know even know your last name.”

“You can. It’s--”

“No!” Stiles ends up poking Derek in the nose in an effort to shush him. “Don’t tell me. The point is that you only let me get close enough to you to have sex with you and to actually _mate_ you, because I was in a position of trust. No, no, let me finish. You trusted me because I have a license and I trained to follow a certain code, which you and I have been breaking like it's going out of style.”

“People end up with their heat therapists all the time. I think there’s even a Sandra Bullock movie about it.”

“Those people didn’t accidentally mate bond! I'm pretty sure they did do this bad makeover montage thing you've got going on ... but that's beside the point.”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, maybe they did mate bond. I’m not in the know about romcom plots or their rapey tendencies.   I hold myself to a higher professional standard than that.”

“If you’re worried about your license, you don’t have to be. I hired you in private. Morrell could make the contracts and the accounting trail go away if I asked. And your nurse friend, she can be paid off.”

“Okay. First of all, Kira is a doctor, and second, it’s scary that your first thought is bribery. I mean, the tenacity is kind of hot and I’m not really one to talk considering that I got her to do it off the books to begin with. But, sexiness of moral gray areas aside, those stupid ethical codes are there for a reason. It’s to protect the patient. That’s you, in case you were wondering.”

Derek smirks. Stiles feels his knot swell at the sight. Assertiveness is a bullet-proof kink of his. Apparently, even more so when it’s coming from an omega.

“I don’t need your protection, Stiles.” Derek leans forward until Stiles is pressed against the arm of the couch. “I’m a big boy. It’s my ass to risk.” Stiles feels young, all of a sudden, pinned to the spot by Derek’s gaze. He might be twenty-five, out of the house with a degree and a full time job and a bills to pay, but he’s not an adult, not really. He’s just a kid playing dress up, while Derek is a _man_ , with a fancy job title and a closet full of suits, properties and stock options and a divorce behind him.

Derek leans closer, tangling his fingers in Stiles’s hair and forcing his head down to the mating mark. It smells like _them_. Stiles whimpers.

Derek draws back just enough so that he can hover a hair’s breadth away from Stiles’s lips. “I’m right here, alpha. All you have to do is accept.”

Stiles sucks down his next breath with an undignified gulp. This is how a panic attack used to feel. He’s shaking with want, hard in his pants, straining against his better judgment like a leashed beast.

It’s with a pained groan that Stiles manages to turn his head away. He pulls Derek against his chest, breathing breath after rapid breath of the scent of his hair, his unique omega musk. They’re pressed together. The staccato of Derek’s heart pounds against Stiles’s belly.

“You aren’t ready for this, Derek. You’re just jumping from Jennifer to me. You can’t even understand everything that’s wrong with it, and this stupid dress-up game just proves it. I fucked up by biting you too long and I’ll accept the consequences. I think we need to dissolve our contract and to not see each other until the bond fades. It’s the only responsible thing to do.”

It’ll hurt, not just financially and professionally, but because Stiles will _miss_ Derek. However, it’s _right_ , like Scott McCall, heroic, do-good, award-winning human being kind of right.

When Derek looks up, he’s panicked, grasping at Stiles’s hands. “No, no, alpha, please.” Stiles winces at the language. “Don’t leave me.”

Stiles’s heart is in his throat. He feels it like a throbbing, tangled mass, a tumor that will strangle him. “After you’re not on some cocktail of hormones that make you think I’m the shit, you’ll see. You’ll find someone better, who didn’t abuse his position. You can--”

“I don’t want someone else. I trust you. Let me show you, Stiles. I’ll be good.”

“It’s not healthy.” Stiles is incredibly conscious of Derek’s bulk. He’s not sure he could move Derek off him if he tried. “Even you must know that.”

“Not all relationships have to be healthy,” Derek tries, sounding almost petulant. “If that’s true, then I can’t have a relationship at all.”

The statement almost shocks Stiles into agreement. It’s a good point and he hadn’t considered it before. Everyone talks about what a good and healthy relationship is. They say it should be between equals, peers who respect the hell out of each other, but can live without each other. But then where does that leave the broken people? Like Derek. Or, like Stiles, who always cares too much or not at all? Don’t unhealthy people deserve to have someone in their lives too? Who says they have to get better _before_ they are deemed ready to be loved? Is this loneliness that Stiles sometimes feels will swallow him up just the punishment for being broken?

But even though what Derek’s saying _makes so much sense_ , Stiles’s gut is telling him that Derek can’t be right. He’s just not sure why.

“If you go, then I’ll have to wait longer to normalize,” Derek argues. He has no qualms shamelessly pressing his advantage. “I’ll have to go through my heats alone or risk taking even _longer_ if I change heat partners. How is _that_ professional?”

“Jesus Christ. It’s not! Okay, Derek? Does that make you happy? None of this is professional. _I’m_ not professional.”

Stiles had thought he was, of course. But, then again, his professionalism has never really been tested. He isn’t attracted to the vast majority of omegas, not the way he is attracted to Derek. Derek's bond-ready scent had been ten times as challenging as even the toughest of the certification exams.

Then there's the fact that he’s always specialized in patients with mobility problems. The kinds of patients who Stiles is used to _like_ that he doesn’t think before he speaks. They’re happy to have someone who’s just being himself rather than a doctor speaking to their disability.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouts. “I’m a terrible person, okay? I took advantage of you and I’m sorry.”

Derek shrinks back at the sudden shouting, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes don’t waiver, however. He just sits there in silent, serene judgment.

“None of it is _right_!” Stiles continues, breaths coming in choked pants now. “I took you on as a client because I was attracted to you and because, fuck, I’m in this field because I want to help people. You asked for me specifically. You needed me and, yeah, I sometimes get off on being needed because otherwise I’ve got nothing. My oma is dead and my apa went ahead and _replaced_ her. And me, while he was at it, with the most beautiful little girl who isn’t a hyperactive spaz. My best friend and the love of his life are living it up in fucking Boston along with half of the other people I care about. Everyone is getting married and moving on with their lives and I’m stuck here, in the same old city doing the same job I did in college. I come home to my empty fucking apartment and ramen and beer for dinner and I feel like _nothing_. It's fucking pathetic, but the only thing that gets me through the day is the fact that I helped some people who really needed it.”

Before he knows it, he’s enveloped in Derek’s sweet scent, pressed up against the stupid lycra of his Lululemon top. It takes him a moment to realize why his vision is blurry: tears he didn’t even know he needed to shed are gathering at the corners of his eyes. He tries to snort the wetness back down before it can escape, but it just sounds like an ugly honk.

“God, I’m a mess. How’s that for professional? You’re the one with the abusive ex and the co-dependency problems and here I am, getting tears all over your ridiculous shirt.”

“It’s okay,” Derek replies. “You don’t think it makes me feel good to be able to help you for a change?”

It makes sense, at least. Derek, who invented a massive guilt complex to avoid seeing himself as a victim, would obviously jump to be the hero of the story. That’s why he still went to visit Jennifer and it’s why he smiles when he wipes the tears from Stiles’s eyes.

Derek cups Stiles’s face between his big palms. It’s comforting, being cradled in hands so strong Stiles believes they could hold up the Earth itself. “Stiles, listen to me. If the bond is too much for you, break the contract. I’ll pay you for services rendered and I’ll still invest in your company. But don’t take away the one heat partner I trust because you think it’ll help me. Having you here is _my choice_ , don’t patronize me by leaving ‘for my own good.’”

“Okay.” Stiles nods. Derek is making perfect sense. Stiles isn’t being selfish. Just because Derek was abused doesn’t mean he’s not an adult capable of making his own choices. He’s aware that the bond was a mistake and that continuing to see each other will only make the chemical dependency worse. But that's not the end of the world.  It’ll be fine.

Except, it isn’t just the pheromones that Stiles is worried about. Derek dressed up for him. He went to Victor’s Secret to buy god knows what. The real trouble is that Derek isn't getting the difference between a therapist/patient relationship and a true alpha/omega relationship. “No, wait--”

“Stiles, if you leave, I’m going to suffer through my own heats until I normalize. Then I’m going to get my procedure done so I never have to depend on an alpha for my heat. Is that what you want?”

Stiles gulps. He is perfectly aware that he’s being emotionally manipulated. Still, his heart is racing and his palms are sweating like he’s facing down a nightmare, not a beautiful omega. “And if I asked you to hold off on that?” Stiles shudders.

“If you asked me, I would never deny you my heats or the ability to breed me.”

It spikes through him, like pain, only it’s exactly the opposite. These are the instincts everyone always talks about: the ones that rush through you like a stampede and leave you breathless and wanting. Stiles feels like a tool for laughing when a blushing Allison explained how Scott’s bed ended up in pieces all over their dorm room. He feels like an even bigger asshole for the times he made fun of the heat therapy dropouts who couldn’t pass their certification practicals.

He’d been so very full of shit when he claimed not to understand why the other alphas couldn’t just ignore their urges. How foolish. Now, he thinks he would claw through steel to get to his omega. He presses Derek against the couch, yanking him until Stiles can lie his whole body on top of him. They're pressed head to toe, their noses brushing and their breaths intermingling. Derek is large for an omega, so Stiles can’t cover him completely. He laces their fingers together and contents himself with nosing down Derek’s neck when he tilts it to the side in invitation. He feels ravenous, feral even. The bloodied bruise he left on Derek doesn’t even disgust him anymore.

Stiles’s hips are moving almost of their own accord. Tight little circles against the silky smooth fabric of Derek’s shorts. Somehow, covering his omega in his scent and protecting him with his entire body isn’t enough. Stiles whines from the back of his throat. He needs more.

“It’s okay,” Derek soothes, petting a hand through Stiles’s hair. “It’s okay, alpha. Let me give you what you need.”

Stiles grunts. He wants to say that what he needs is Derek, pure and simple. He wants to nurture him and take care of him. He wants Derek to be _his,_ even though he knows that isn’t how it works. He isn’t that kind of alpha.

Stiles shoves his pants down and yanks his cock out of his boxers. It’s already slick with precum, rubbing obscene patterns into the taut fabric of Derek’s shorts.

Derek moans. He wraps his legs around Stiles and thrusts up, like he’s the alpha.

“Get these stupid things off,” Stiles complains, yanking at Derek’s clothes. “I’m done looking at them.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow. “Hard to do when you’re on top of me.”

“Well, fix it,” Stiles moans, not moving to help. He doesn’t think he can stand to lose even an inch of contact.

Derek grins. “You asked for it.”

He inserts one leg between Stiles’s and then flips them over. Stiles squeals at the unexpected reversal, but the show of strength only makes him more turned on. Derek delivers a filthy kiss before he’s stripping out of his clothes at near inhuman speed. The lingerie from Victor’s Secret turns out to be a black lace thong held up by two narrow straps that hook over Derek’s shoulders to form a V on his toned chest. Stiles had thought it was a lacy undershirt.

The roughness of the material rubbing on Stiles’s sensitive cock makes him groan, but Derek shows no interest in mercy. He grinds himself against Stiles with slow deliberation. “Try it again,” Derek pants into a kiss. “I want you to do it this time.”

“What?” Stiles mumbles. He’s kiss-drunk and high on Derek’s changed pheromones, the ones now mixed with Stiles’s own scent. Does this mean Derek will finally fuck Stiles? He whimpers with anticipation.

“Knot me,” Derek begs. He pulls off his stupid skimpy underwear and sits on Stiles’s straining cock without preamble.

“Holy shit!” Stiles was not expecting that warm, wet heat to descend on him so rapidly and with zero warning. Derek is tight, but he’s relaxed enough that Stiles slides in like a knife in warm butter.

Derek is slick for being out of heat. He rides Stiles for a few minutes, giving a soft grunt with every thrust, eyes locked with Stiles’s.

Stiles wants nothing more than to knot. He feels it pulsing at the base of his cock, pulsing like a tiger pacing its cage. “Are you sure?” he asks, because he does not need another broken wrist.

“I’m sure,” Derek agrees. “You’re my alpha. I trust you.”

“It’s not about trust, it’s--” Stiles tries to argue but then Derek is pulling off. He grabs a throw blanket and spreads it out on the smooth wood floor behind the couch.

“There,” Derek snaps. He lays down, with his legs splayed and his hair tousled. He looks different without the beard. Younger. His eyes are glazed and his pupils have eclipsed the brilliant green of his irises. “Now will you knot me, alpha?”

Stiles pounces, only restrained by the cast.

The second Stiles is on top of him, Derek wraps his legs around his waist. It’s easy to slide back into that perfect hole. It’s even easier to pound into his omega until the knot catches. Derek makes no move to throw Stiles off. He only chants, “Please, Stiles. So good. Deeper. Come on!” The last is almost a roar. This is how Derek is meant to be, Stiles realizes: wild and aggressive and dominant. He fucking hates that bitch who made him scared of this, because Derek is sheer omega beauty.

Stiles thrusts in a final time with a guttural roar. His knot balloons quicker than he thinks he’s ever managed. Derek clenches him so tight in his responding orgasm that Stiles wonders if he might pass out from lack of oxygen. He does lose coherence for a second, finding himself licking at Derek’s bond mark as he comes to. This close he can see that it covers the faint scars he now knows belong to Jennifer. It makes him grin, knowing that Derek is his now and there’s nothing she can do about it, rotting away in a prison cell.

Derek’s legs are still clenched tight around him. His hole spasms. They both gasp in air like they’re drowning.

“Wow,” Stiles says. “I think it’s safe to say that you just rocked my world.” It would be awkward if he had enough brain cells left to care.

Derek grins. He nuzzles the side of Stiles’s neck, where Stiles would have a bite if he were the omega. “So you don’t do that with those other omegas?”

“I don’t do anything like _that_ with anyone. Just you.” He kisses Derek on the cheek. “Fuck,” he complains. “Now that you put us down here, we can’t see the TV.”

Derek shrugs. He pushes Stiles’s head down against his chest and they doze while Stiles pumps round after round of come into him. Stiles didn’t think he had this much jizz left in the tank so soon after sharing a heat.  His body must be reacting to the fact that he just bonded an omega during heat and that omega isn’t pregnant yet.  Stiles almost regrets his Vas Deferens Device. Except the last thing he needs is to knock up one of his clients. 

That doesn’t stop him from reached down to stroke Derek’s belly or spasming a few more times with post-tie orgasms. He can't shake the image of Derek huge and round with child. Derek is so fit, he’d carry everything out in front, like a perfectly rounded globe. His arms would stay toned and his waist narrow and he’d just look like somebody strapped a basketball to his tummy. Stiles imagines the stretch marks that would make him scowl and the way he would cradle the bump with his usual easy grace. His nipples would get dark and sensitive and his tits would swell and he’d cuddle up under the covers and let Stiles kiss him all over. Derek would be his then, irrevocably.

Derek pokes him out of his fantasy.

“What?” Stiles grumbles.

“It went down,” Derek says. “I thought you wanted to watch the game.”

Stiles would rather stay here with his omega beneath him where no other alphas can pull him away. But Derek can't be comfortable lying on the floor with Stiles’s weight on top of him. He pushes up with a squelch. Come trickles obscenely out of Derek’s stretched hole.

Derek wrinkles his nose, especially when Stiles sticks a finger in the puddle and tastes it. “Delicious,” Stiles pronounces.

Derek rolls his eyes. He ignores Stiles’s hand and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”

“Change into something different, will you?”

“It doesn't embarrass you when I look like an alpha?” Derek asks.

“We're by ourselves. Who can I be embarrassed in front of? It's not like I give two shits what the stupid twins think."

"And if we went out somewhere?" Derek asks.

"All those trendy omega outfits aren’t for me. I liked you alpha-passing.”

“Really?”

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever tickles your pickle, and you without all the frills tickles mine. I’m a weirdo, okay? You can’t predict my tastes, so don’t even try.”

Derek still looks a little skeptical, but he kisses Stiles in agreement. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait.” Stiles can’t let it rest, though. He can accept that they’re doing this, but he can’t let Derek build his life up around him and his desires the way he so clearly did around Jennifer. Not when he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to stay. “Derek, you can’t change yourself for me or what you think I want.”

“I know. You’re not my alpha. I heard you.” He sounds bitter.

“Yeah, well, it’s not just that. You say that you’re okay and you consent to, um....” Stiles doesn’t want to say what they are to each other. It’s not a real relationship but it’s not a professional one either. “And I want to believe that we’re doing the right thing here, but that’s really hard when you’re acting like the poster child for erotic transference. You aren’t allowed to get over your issues with Jennifer by shifting them onto me.”

“Okay.” Derek looks like he has absolutely no intention of obeying.

“I’m serious. I’m your therapist. Well, not therapist-therapist, but I’m some kind of professional-ish person, despite my obvious unprofessionalism and even though I’m not sure about much when it comes to you, this is the one thing that I’m absolutely certain of. Whatever decisions you make about us, about how you dress, about your plans for the future ... they have to be about you, okay? Because you’re worth it.”

“Did you just use the L’Oreal slogan in a serious attempt to counsel me?”

Stiles tosses the ugly lycra top at him. “Screw you. That was inspiring.”

Derek laughs. “If you say so.”

Stiles sobers. “You’ll promise, though, won’t you? Don’t do anything just because you think it’ll make me happy.”

Derek nods studiously. Stiles hopes it’s enough.

When Derek goes off to the bedroom, Stiles fiddles with the DVR. Anything to avoid the commercials. Anything to avoid sitting here with his own thoughts, at least the accusatory ones that say what he’s doing with Derek is wrong. Yes, Stiles is his heat therapist and not his alpha. Yes, Derek is not in the best psychological place to be bonded. It was a huge mistake, but the bond is here whether they like it or not. Stiles has to do what’s right from here on out. He can’t go back in time and unmake his regrets.

It’s the best thing, really, to indulge Derek for now, even if he does seem too attached. If Stiles leaves, then Derek will lose the self-confidence that flourished under Stiles's care. He’ll chop out his ovaries and go through early menopause and probably die of some complication. Even though Stiles is compromised, he’s also making Derek’s life better by staying than he would by going. He can’t let his own attachment get in the way of doing what’s best for Derek. He’ll stay until he can convince Derek to forgo the oophorectomy and then they can fix this mess of a bond.

By the time Derek comes back from the shower, the Giants have rallied and the score is now 5-4. “That’s what you get,” Stiles crows. “Nobody puts Peavy in a corner!”

“What?” Derek says. Now he's wearing jeans and a tight olive green shirt. It makes Stiles want to strip his clothes off again and fuck him over the coffee table while they watch the Giants kick more Dodger ass.

“We’re back ahead. And it’s the top of the lineup again with no outs. Ha! They pulled Ryu. Sucks for him, getting ousted in the 3rd.” The normalcy of it feels good. Then again, spending time with Derek has always felt good.

“They wouldn’t have done it if Peavy were an alpha,” Derek argues. He pulls Stiles back from the edge of his seat until he’s resting against his chest.

“Yay, sexism!” Stiles replies. “At least when it comes to RBIs.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You don’t know that Ryu staying in would’ve been worse.”

“Not scientifically. But this is baseball. What kind of fan would I be if I didn’t think every little thing that happens on the field is the result of some special baseball magic. I mean, if I can believe in Linecum’s lucky cap, then I can believe in the Dodgers getting karmically punished for sexism.”

“You’re superstitious?”

“Dude, I’m like the king of superstition. When we played lacrosse, I used to make Scott hide all my gear in the omega locker room because I thought it would make me a better player. I suspect it was just that Jackson was better than I was, but I couldn’t give up and risk being even more awful than I already was. Try one of these fries, they’re delicious, if I don’t say so myself, even if we did let them get cold.”

Derek eats just one fry, but seems to enjoy it enough to dig into the burger. Before Stiles knows it, they’re both stuffed and sated as the Giants beat their rivals 7-4.

***

It’s Saturday and Stiles is laying back on the couch as Derek kisses him. They were watching old episodes of Star Trek TNG when an argument about whether the Borg are an overused plot device spiraled out of control. Arguing turned to insults and play wrestling and an extended makeout session. It’s teasing and sweet and Stiles can almost forget about how if he were a good person, they wouldn’t be doing this at all.

Of course, Stiles is in the process of teasing off Derek’s sinfully tight t-shirt when Scott’s ringtone goes off. Stiles has never hated Blink-182 more. And that includes when Scott won radio rights during an LA roadtrip and and played ‘Damnit’ forty-seven times in a row.

Stiles groans, but doesn’t make any move to retrieve the phone. He figures Scott won’t care if he lets it ring through in favor of getting laid.

“Don’t you have to get that?” Derek mumbles between kisses.

“No. He’s probably just flip flopping on band or DJ again.” Stiles spreads his legs to cradle Derek between them. Of course, Scott rings again.

“It’s okay,” Derek says, pulling back. “It might be important. Answer it.”

Stiles is a little nervous. Scott never calls twice in a row like that. He almost always texts to ask if Stiles has time for a call. They haven’t talked in weeks. Mostly because Stiles hasn’t told Scott about this thing with Derek. He knows it’s stupid, because it’s not as though Scott will never find out. He’s in touch with Erica and maybe Isaac, not to mention their shared parents (though Stiles hasn’t told them either).

It’s just that Stiles is taking such a big risk, putting his entire future on this. And he’s embarrassed that he’s already managed to fuck it up so spectacularly. He doesn’t need Scott’s encouragements, as sincere as they are. And he certainly doesn’t want Scott to try to solve his problems from three thousand miles away. Scott might be an upstanding moral gentleman, but his plans usually suck.

Stiles resolves to tell him at least about the clinic, if not about the whole Derek situation. He needs to plant the idea of working together before Scott considers joining residency programs out in Boston.

He takes a deep breath picks up the phone. “Hey, Scotty, what’s--”

“I’m pregnant!” Scott interrupts.

Stiles knows he must look like an idiot, gaping like a fish. After too long of a silence he manages to muster up, “Congratulations! That’s great.”

If Scott hears the hollowness in his tone, he doesn’t let on. “I know this isn’t the most ideal time. I mean, I’m going to be freakin’ huge for the wedding photos. I’ll have to graduate at least a semester late, but I’ll have a _baby._ Ally makes enough to support all three of us so there’s no rush.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. Scott takes that an invitation to go on about how Allison is also really pleased and shyly proud of herself. They're talking about buying a house (out in Boston where Stiles will never see them again). Scott even tries to tease Stiles with all the horrible names he’s come up with, but Stiles can't muster his usual enthusiasm.

Stiles must look as dazed and nauseous as he feels because Derek is shooting him a concerned look. He’s decided to help Stiles fold the clean laundry he’d left in the hamper when Derek showed up. Even though Derek is just snooping, Stiles is grateful for his presence. Scott is moving on, but at least Stiles isn't alone.

“When did you find out?” Stiles asks shakily.

“Like two hours ago. I know you’re supposed to wait to tell people until the end of the first trimester, but I just couldn’t wait another month. You’re my best bro and my bro bro. I would’ve called you right away, but Allison and I were, um, celebrating.”

“Of course you were.”

“And then she bet me an entire month of diaper changes that I couldn’t go 24 hours without calling you. I lasted like forty-five minutes.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I know, right? I’m just so happy.” Scott sounds like he’s wearing his widest face-splitting grin. It’s contagious. Stiles smiles even though he feels gutted. This is yet another thing that Scott is doing without him, away from him, leaving Stiles in the dust.

“So, um, how are things with you?” Scott manages after a moment.

“Good.” Stiles nearly chokes on the word. It’s so far from the truth, but he can’t steal Scott’s big moment with his own problems.

“That’s good.”

“I'm sure you and Allison still have a lot to talk about, so, I guess, congratulations, again, man. You’re going to be a great opa. Keep me posted.”

“Of course. And, hey, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Stiles hangs up the phone and slowly collapses back onto the sofa, like a sinkhole in the middle of Derek’s neat laundry pile. Derek finishes and then pulls the clothes out from under Stiles and puts everything in a neat stack back in the basket.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

Derek just shrugs, hovering. Derek doesn’t need to deal with any more of Stiles’s bullshit. It’s Stiles that’s supposed to be the one helping Derek, even if the boundaries have blurred.

“So that was Scott.” Stiles gives an anemic chuckle.

Derek takes a tentative seat next to him, staring down at Stiles with an open, if a little wary expression.

“He’s pregnant.”

“I figured.”

“That’s great. I mean, it’s really great. He and Allison have been disgustingly in love since Sophomore year of high school and they’re getting married soon. I’m his best friend and his step-brother. I should be happy for him, but--”

“You wanted him to be yours?” Derek scowls.

“What? With Scott? Ew, no, gross! Scott and I were _never_ like that. I love him like a brother. He _is_ my brother. I mean, we made out once right after he first presented and back in the day, I would have helped him with his heat if he ever asked. But I had this crazy crush on the world’s most amazing alpha and Scott found Allison, so that never had to happen.”

“You’re gay?” Derek looks completely shocked. No, worse, he has that betrayed look on his face. It reminds Stiles of the look traditionalists get when they find out that not only is he a heat therapist, but a _homo_ too.

Except that doesn’t make sense, because Derek’s sister is gay. That’s why he’s doing this whole thing in the first place.

“Down boy. I just knotted you less than a week ago. What do you think?” Stiles snaps.

“Not gay, but you’re bisexual?”

“Definitely down to do the deed with both, but I’ve only ever dated alphas. You’d be surprised. A lot of heat therapists identify as gay. It makes it a lot easier to not get attached.” Not that it’s helping at the moment.

Derek looks down at the laundry, like it’s the one being vulnerable and talking about its sexuality. “So you’re not actually interested in dating an omega?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Why does nobody get the definition of bisexual? It’s really not that hard.” It’s easier to be annoyed than it is to say what he feels, which is that he just never met any omegas that he wanted to date. Until Derek.

“Sorry,” Derek grunts. He doesn’t sound _that_ sorry, more petulant. “So you would date an omega?”

“Absolutely.”

Derek looks ready to ask another question. They both know that the question is ‘would you date _me_?’ but Derek steers clear of that discussion for now.

In a way, Stiles is relieved. He doesn’t think he can handle drawing boundaries with Derek on top of the bomb Scott just dropped. But he’s also aware of how messy things are continuing to get. He just doesn’t have the balls to bring it up himself.

 _Later,_ he thinks. After Derek’s donates his eggs, maybe Stiles can get him back on suppressants and it’ll all work out somehow. Stiles doesn’t know how, but he’ll find a way. He always does.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira is nervous about Stiles's unethical behavior, but Stiles and Derek continue to grow closer.

Stiles meets Kira in a nondescript strip mall after dark, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie. He feels like a creepy pedophile in a primetime cop procedural, but she holds his career in her hands, so he’ll go along with whatever crazy stipulation she has.

Except, he can’t keep his mouth shut when she comes out dressed all in black, including a black beanie and--

“Is that a _sword_?” Stiles blurts.

“No!” Kira squeaks. “It’s a shinai. Just for practice. Later I’m teaching the 2-dan class at the dojo.”

Stiles doesn’t think that being surrounded by omegas that can thoroughly kick his ass is good for his blood pressure. Especially when all the blood wants to rush to a particular, unhelpful place.

“You know, I think we’re actually more conspicuous like this. I couldn’t just come over to your place?” Stiles had been there before when Kira hosted a party to ingratiate herself with the staff. Though, she’d only really succeeded in having them drink all her alcohol and break a priceless Japanese vase. Half the therapists on staff are college kids. What did she expect?

“I think it’s best if we’re no longer seen together, Stiles. You left the clinic, remember? We don’t have a reason .”

“Um, we’re friends?” Stiles tries. Truth be told, he and Kira had never been close. He took her under his wing as a favor to Scott, who was Kira’s 'little brother' in the omega society at their med school.

Kira’s small smile reads more like a grimace.

“So I did the bloodwork,” Kira says, handing over a neatly labeled manila folder. Not the stuff of back alley spy dramas.

“Yeah, and? What’s the damage?”

She sighs. “Not as bad as it could have been. The second sample you gave me already showed significant breakdown in the bonding markers. He started to plateau after a week and at a lower level than if the bond had been completed. I think I pulled you off in time. If you stop seeing him right now, the bond should dissipate in less than a month. It wouldn’t even leave a biological trace.”

“Okay,” Stiles replies. It’s good news. He should be happy. Except there’s no way he can leave Derek now. Alone and psychologically vulnerable, Derek will march straight to the table to get his ovaries hacked out.

“So, problem solved,” Kira says with a bright smile. “Wait a month and we’ll all be home free. You can show this file to Derek and then shred it. I ran the analysis under a different patient name and then told the lab it was a mix-up. We can’t do anything about the appointment logs for when he was your patient at the clinic. But Derek can request the rest of his medical records be destroyed just in case they try to match his blood sample. We’ll all go our separate ways and nobody will be the wiser.”

She looks so relieved, loosening the screws in every bone of her body. Stiles hates what he has to do next.

“That’s great, Kira, but Derek and I aren’t separating.”

Kira is a cute omega, but the gobsmacked look isn’t good on her. “What? Stiles, you could lose your license. If somebody finds out.… The ethics committee will toss you out. Erica said you were trying to start your own business. Your idea for helping handicapped patients is really great and innovative, but no one will buy into a new system like that if people can’t trust your moral compass.”

Stiles sighs. “Kira, nobody’s going to find out. There are only three people on the planet who know exactly what went down: you, me, and Derek. I’m not going to tell, because then I'll get my license revoked. You’re not going to tell, because you’ll get your license revoked. And you have way more schooling and debt riding on it than I do, so I know you would never risk that.”

Kira gulps. Stiles didn’t mean for it to come out as a threat. Mostly.

“And Derek--” he continues

“He might cooperate for now, Stiles. You just bonded him! He’s high on hormones and thinks his alpha can do no wrong, but what happens when that wears off? Or if he gets a real alpha who doesn’t like what you’ve done to him? What about when your contract is up and you leave him in bond withdrawal?”

“Maybe I won’t leave him,” Stiles grumbles. He tries to stalk away, but Kira’s grip on his elbow is as firm as an anchor.

“Stiles, come on. It has to end sometime. You aren’t going to spend the rest of your life semi-bonded to a client just to cover this up.”

“It wouldn’t be _semi_ -bonded and it wouldn’t be just a cover up!” Stiles shouts. He hasn’t really thought about what he wants from the future. He just knows that, right now, Derek is _his_. He’s not Stiles’s boon or burden; he’s just Stiles’s to protect. But Stiles finds, now that she’s pushed him on it, that he wouldn’t mind being bonded to Derek. He likes him and he wants him and they’re better together than they are in their lonely worlds. What more to it is there?

 _A lot of things_ , the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Scott whispers.

Kira takes a step back, releasing him. “Oh.”

They’re at a stalemate and they both know it. Stiles sucks down breath after angry breath and Kira stares at the folder she’s still clutching tight.

“Stiles. You know, even if Derek would never press charges, what happened was a crime.”

“No--” Stiles’s dad is a cop. He knows all the crimes _and_ their police codes.

“Forced bonding is illegal. He never asked you for a full bonding bite. Plus you’re a heat therapist and he was under your care. That increases your legal duty.”

“Jesus, Kira, are you a doctor or a lawyer?”

“I’m someone who could be in serious trouble because I did you a favor! You can get back together with him afterwards, but please, Stiles, it’s only a month.”

If Derek is normalizing, which he should be, considering he just bonded, then his heat will come in less than a month. Stiles can’t just abandon him to it. An unmated, childless omega Derek’s age shouldn’t go through a heat alone.

Granted, Derek is in phenomenal shape so he probably won’t have any adverse health effects. Still, it’ll be excruciating, worse than labor. He could go back on suppressants, but Stiles knows he won’t, not if he only has one more heat to go.

The last thing Stiles wants is for Derek to suffer. If he abandons Derek now, while he’s recently bonded and vulnerable, that’ll be the end of his healing. He'll never understand that he doesn't have to change anything in order to be loved. He’ll close himself off and never let anybody try to help him ever again.

“...you can dissolve your contract with him and start dating afterwards,” Kira is saying, like Stiles is one of those stupid kids who use heat therapy like it’s Tinder. “The ethics committee turns a blind eye to that kind of thing. It happens all the time.”

“No.”

“But Stiles--”

“No, Kira, I’ll give you that what I did was both dangerous and idiotic, but my first responsibility is to Derek. He has probably one more heat to go before we finish his treatment plan and he’s not in a psychological state where I can just leave him!”

“You don’t give him enough credit, Stiles. You don’t have to involve yourself in every little thing. You are not the only one in the universe capable of helping people. If you need a way to make yourself feel better then don’t--”

Stiles doesn’t hear the rest. He’s too busy walking away.

“Do what you want, Kira! Turn us both in, but I’m not going to abandon him.”

Stiles stews the whole bus ride home, planning revenge plots that don’t end in him being impaled on a _real_ sword. When he gets home, Derek is already there, looking adorably domestic in thick-rimmed glasses and basketball shorts.

“Where were you?” he asks. Stiles can tell that he’s trying for casual, but might actually be a little worried.

Stiles should tell him about Kira’s increasing nervousness, the blood tests, how they have a get-out-of-jail-free card just waiting for them if only Stiles were willing to let Derek suffer through his heat alone.

“Out,” Stiles says.

“You’re supposed to be home when I get back. Did Aiden make a mistake with the schedule?” Derek replies. The last thing Stiles needs is a reminder of their contract. Still angry, he hates Derek for the briefest of moments. He wants to shout: ‘I’m not _just_ your employee. I’m risking my career for you! Can’t you see?’

“No. The bus ran late. Sorry.”

Stiles settles against Derek’s side petulantly. He breathes deep until the soothing mix of their pheromones calms him.

“No, I’m sorry,” Derek says, kissing the top of Stiles’s head. Never mind that Derek isn’t the liar or the terrible heat therapist. He has nothing to be sorry for.

***

Stiles always forgets how much he loves this: the rush of color-coded bodies, the comforting drone of the announcer, the smell of hot dogs and peanuts and beer.

“Thanks for doing this,” Stiles says, leaning into Derek’s side as they slowly carve a path through the chaos. Derek’s arm is warm and solid around his waist. It’s dumb, but Stiles feels like he’s in high school again. This is the kind of date he should have had back then - casual and sweet, doing something he loved. But then, Heather…. He hadn’t done a lot of dating.

“Not exactly a hardship,” Derek says. “I like baseball and I don’t get to come out here enough.”

Stiles’s heart clenches for a second. Of course this isn’t a real date. Derek just wants to see the game and since he and Stiles like watching together, it’s a natural next step.

“And I’ve been wanting to take you out,” Derek adds with a grin. “The only places we’ve been outside the apartment are a heat clinic and a hospital.”

“That is pretty pathetic,” Stiles acknowledges.

Derek leans in and kisses him then. Somebody shoves into Stiles’s shoulder when they stop the flow of traffic, but he doesn’t care.

“That’s okay, right? I can kiss you?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, you’re taking me to my first game in a couple of years and looking hot and adorable while doing it. I think you’re entitled to whatever parts of my body you want.”

Derek looks down at Stiles’s crotch suggestively.

Stiles bursts out into open mouthed, joyous laughter and ends up trying to tickle Derek, who dances away from him easily.

“Hey, want some food?” Derek asks, recapturing Stiles's hand. “We should stock up so we don’t have to miss anything.”

When they get to the front of the line, Stiles is too wrapped up in Derek to remember what he wants. "....Oh, and garlic fries sound good, don’t they? And a pretzel? And, holy shit, you guys have Krispy Kreme!”

Derek just smiles indulgently and pays for it all.

“Look at you, hon. Your alpha sure takes good care of you,” the elderly concession omega tells him.

“He’s not--” Derek begins, but Stiles just smiles and thanks her.

While Stiles tries and fails to not spill beer all over himself on the way to the condiment station, Derek frowns.

“You don’t mind her thinking you’re an omega?”

Stiles shrugs. “Doesn’t seem worth making a big deal. I mean, it’s an honest mistake and one we’re kind of asking for. I’ve got on my awesome Hello Kitty Giants shirt. She doesn’t know it was a gag gift from Scott. Plus, you paid. Public place like this, she’s not going to smell you. Even though I definitely appreciate you going without the scent blocking lotion for once.”

Stiles leans in and takes a big whiff of Derek’s sweet omega scent. He wants to bottle the stuff and take a bath in it.

“You said to wear all my Giants memorabilia!" which happens to be a Barry Bonds jersey, a baseball cap and some truly atrocious sweatpants. "I can order something more omega-looking for next time.”

Stiles grins at the thought of a next time. “No, dude, you need to chillax. I don’t care if I get mistaken for your omega. I’d be proud. For realz.”

“If you say so,” Derek murmurs.

“If it bothers you that much, _you_ can wear the Hello Kitty shirt. I’m kind of afraid those biceps will rip it, though. Not gonna lie.”

“No, I’m okay,” Derek replies, eying the shirt like it might bite him. “I skipped the Hello Kitty phase.”

“Good. I can’t even picture childhood-you all decked out in Hello Kitty anyway.”

Derek leads Stiles towards the center of the stadium and then down an aisle that puts them right behind home plate. Stiles doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He’s surrounded by evidence of Derek's net worth every single day. Stiles himself is another luxury purchase.

“These are your corporate seats?” Stiles asks. He’s distracted by the view, even though nobody is even on the field yet. He can see the blades of grass! The dirt of the pitcher's mound! Even the giant scowl on Bochy's face!

“No. We have a box.” Derek points back to the suites halfway up the stadium. “I thought you’d like to be down here with all the action.”

“Yeah, but I’ve always wanted up in one of those things. Just to see what it’s like. I mean, I bet it’s nice. And they probably have all you can eat hot dogs.”

Derek looks pointedly down at the three hot dogs in Stiles’s lap. “I think you already have all you can eat. I like it down here better. Up there we always end up watching more on the TV than through the window. Half the clients I bring out here don’t watch the game at all.”

“Well, I suppose if I had you alone with those tinted windows , I wouldn’t pay much attention to the game either.”

Derek’s eyes bulge comically.

“Hey, if the game gets boring maybe we could sneak up there--”

Derek gulps. “I think Marin has some clients out today,” he clearly lies. “Maybe another time.”

Stiles laughs and crams another hot dog into his mouth.

The game gets a rocky start. The Cubs take an early lead and with Sandoval on the DL, the Giants are floundering. As night falls, Stiles finds himself pressed to Derek’s side in an effort to defend against the ballpark chill. The orange waves of the sunset fade to the dawning brightness of the stadium lights. Stiles has a beautiful omega at his side and his team is rallying. Sort of. They’re going to rally. He has faith.

Derek somehow looks even better in the fading light, like his inner beauty can rise to kiss the surface of his skin. It illuminates everything around him. Even in a black and orange baseball cap, he takes Stiles’s breath away.

Stiles ignores the hitch in his breathing, turning away from Derek to watch Bonifacio strike out. He cuddles closer, wrapping an arm around Derek’s chest.

There’s no particular specialness to moment. Derek isn’t even talking. The crowd is cheering and shouting around him, but the stillness in Stiles’s head is deafening.

He’s in love, he realizes. Maybe he has been all along.

***

“Look!” Stiles crows, waving his too-thin, naked wrist in front of Derek’s face from behind where Derek is sitting on the couch. “No cast!”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “It stinks.”

“It was trapped under a grimy, sweaty cast that I may or may not have taken the best care of.” Considering the amount of Dorito-colored dust the doctor had found in there, probably pretty terrible, actually.

“Congratulations,” Derek says. He grabs Stiles by the elbow and yanks him over the back of the couch. He ends up sprawled with his head in Derek’s lap, face tucked into those amazing abs.

“Mmmm,” Stiles mumbles, nuzzling closer. He lifts up Derek’s shirt and licks his bellybutton. The surprised squeal that Derek makes is priceless; the jostling as Derek squirms, not so much.

“You’re a menace,” Derek grumbles, but he pets his fingers through Stiles’s hair so he can’t be too annoyed.

“That I am, big guy.”

“So is there anything you want to do to celebrate?” Derek asks. He looks down at Stiles with kind eyes. “Take a shower without a plastic bag? Open some jars? Play a game of basketball?”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Ew. None of that is celebratory enough. Especially not the basketball.”

“I used to play, in high school and in college my first two years,” Derek mentions. His hand stills in Stiles’s hair, but that’s the only indication that the conversation is significant.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks carefully. “I bet you were good. You’re like 0% body fat and you’re tall for an omega.”

Derek stares straight ahead. Stiles thinks he spots a white hair on the underside of his beard. “I played on the alpha team,” Derek says.

“Wow,” Stiles sits up gracelessly. He needs to take in Derek’s body, like _all of it_ , because his omega used to get sweaty and take on a bunch of alphas and that is so hot.

Derek stares at him, tensed as though he might bolt any second.

“We are _definitely_ not playing basketball, then. I’ll be humiliated and probably re-break my stupid wrist.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No! What it does is hot and bother me!” Stiles uses his newfound dexterity to grab ahold of Derek’s shoulders and swing himself into Derek’s lap. He bites at Derek’s bottom lip when he kisses him. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are? You make me crazy, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Oh, yeah? Mr. Big Bad Basketball-Star Omega? Whatcha gonna do ‘bout it?”

Derek smirks. And then he’s lifting Stiles up, hands digging into Stiles’s ass in punishment.

“Giddy up, cowboy!” Stiles mocks, even though he’s got his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist and is already so hard that he might pop a button on his jeans. “Gonna dump me on the bed like some romantic omega hero?”

“No, I’m going to open the door and toss you out on your ass,” Derek grumbles. Instead of doing either, he lifts Stiles up onto the kitchen counter. Derek feels hot and heavy between Stiles’s thighs. The stubble of the beard Stiles finally convinced him to grow back scrapes Stiles’s sensitive cheeks. It feels so good that Stiles is ready to declare his cheeks a newly discovered erotic zone. He tilts his neck back to let Derek continue his rough, nipping kisses.

Still, it’s not enough. Stiles tightens his legs until Derek gets with the program and starts thrusting against him. His hips undulate magnificently. And when he delivers an actual bite to Stiles’s neck, Stiles thinks he maybe whited out for a second. He hasn’t been this turned on outside of a heat session in years.

“Shit, Derek,” he mumbles. “I’m getting so wet for you.”

Then, of course, all the delicious friction stops and he’s staring into a pair of confused hazel eyes.

“What? Derek, oh my god, you can’t just stop in the middle of something like that!” He pulls at the straps of Derek’s tank top, but Derek doesn’t budge.

“You’re an alpha. You don’t get wet.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I know that! Who are you? Drax the Destroyer? No need to take everything so literal.”

“I’m not! I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say to something like that. I’ve never done anything kinky, Stiles. Sex isn't my job.”

Stiles sighs. Of course. Derek likes pretending to be an alpha when it comes to sports and work, but when it's time to deliver between the sheets, he’s Mr. Vanilla.

Derek frowns. “You’re mad at me.”

Stiles chuckles. It’s hollow and a little desperate. “No. You haven’t done anything wrong. I was just hoping--” He can’t finish that sentence. The end of that sentence is asking too much of a guy who has barely anything left to give.

Derek licks his lips, considering. “I haven’t done anything kinky.”

“You haven’t wanted to.”

“No. But I told you we could celebrate. I’m willing to try.”

Stiles can’t stop grinning. Derek gives a small, shy smile back. “Yeah?”

“Yes. But you have to tell me what we’re doing.”

Stiles gives him a quick, chaste kiss in thanks. “Well, you know how I’m not exactly straight.”

Derek nods.

“Well, I really like having sex with you in the omega role. I’m not saying that’s bad. It’s mindblowing. Sometimes I think I’m going to fuck you so hard that my dick’ll get stuck in there and like rot off from gangrene or something.”

Derek makes a face.

“No! I mean, not a good use of metaphor, but it’s awesome. I like fucking you, okay?”

Derek nods.

“It’s just that I also like being the omega sometimes.”

Derek nods again.

“You don’t have to say anything, if that’s too weird. I mean, I can keep my mouth shut--”

Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Okay, I can not with the gender-bending dirty talk. But I’d really, really like for you to fuck me.”

Derek seems lost in thought for a second, but then he nods just slightly, leaning in to kiss Stiles. It’s tender now, too saccharine for the kitchen counter. When Derek presses in, his nipples are pebbled against Stiles’s chest and his cock is still erect and straining.

Stiles returns the kiss, unbuttoning Derek’s jeans in the process. Today, Derek’s wearing a lacy red thong.

Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“I wanted to,” Derek reassures him. “But I admit it’s not the best if you want me to play the alpha.”

“Meh. You’re still you, so I don’t think my dick particularly cares. Do whatever makes you feel good.”

“Mmmm. You make me feel good,” Derek gasps. He uses both hands to cup Stiles’s face, drawing him in for a soft, soulful kiss. “Such a pretty omega,” he tries. It comes out stilted and they both end up laughing.

“Yeah, yeah. Seriously, you don’t have to with the dirty talk. Just fuck me and I’ll be good.”

Derek stops long enough to yank off Stiles’s pants and toss them over the counter and out into the living room. He wraps a firm hand around Stiles’s cock, squeezing at the knot hard enough that it can’t even begin to inflate. It’s just the right side of painful and absolutely perfect. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d say Derek knew more about gay sex than he let on.

“Look at your big omega cock,” Stiles says. “The first time I saw it, I couldn’t wait to get my mouth around it.”

Derek grunts, burying his face in Stiles’s neck as Stiles strokes him.

“I’ve never done this,” Derek reiterates.

“Doesn’t matter if you technique is perfect. The fact that it’s you is enough. Do you have any idea how long I’ve fantasized about having this in me?” Stiles moans, pulling a Derek’s cock. He nips at his omega’s earlobe. “I want you deep inside, fucking me as hard as these big muscles can. I want to be split open on your dick, fucking dripping with your seed.”

For someone who claims not to be kinky, the dirty talk sure seems to be doing it for Derek. His eyes are closed and his nostrils flare as he thrusts up into Stiles’s palm greedily.

“You want to put it in me, big boy?” Stiles demands. “Do you want to put the mouthy little alpha in his place?”

Derek’s cheeks are flushed and he’s shaking with want, but he shakes his head. “I want to show my mouthy little alpha how good it is to be protected by someone who cares about you.”

With that, he lifts Stiles up and carries him back towards the bedroom, kissing him the whole way. He gently deposits Stiles on the bed and crawls after him. Stiles arches into the big hands that run down his sides. He nearly screams when Derek leans down to suck one of his nipples into his mouth. Stiles has always regretted that his nipples weren’t as sensitive as an omega’s, until now. Derek teases at them in rough, slick circles that have Stiles biting down on his bottom lip and squirming.

Then Derek is kissing down his stomach and lifting his legs up to rest on his shoulders as he makes bold, broad licks at Stiles’s hole. Stiles does scream then, glad for the thick walls of this ridiculously classy apartment. He has no idea how Derek learned to do any of this, but suddenly Derek’s tongue is inside him, soon joined by a finger. Together they press and slither and twist so it feels like a drill, rotating deeper into him, so relentless and tender that he starts to sob.

“Oh god,” he chants over and over again. Derek’s hand is back on his knot, forcing it down. He feels overstimulated and raw, like he’ll pop. Or maybe explode, gush all over like a volcano. Mt. Stiles, erupting all over Derek’s pretty face. Of course, he would only do that if the stifling pressure on his knot would just relent.

Just when Stiles is ready to break down and beg, Derek pulls back from his hole. He rubs his whiskers against Stiles’s inner thigh, tickling him. He follows it with tiny kisses up to the crease of his groin, over his belly button, back to his erect, sensitive nipples, and finally to the hollow of his throat.

He squeezes at Stiles’s knot with the same rhythm that he rubs his own cock against Stiles’s thigh. It’s the same syncopated beat he uses to lick over and over again at the pheromone gland in Stiles’s neck. The licks turn into hard, indecent sucking and Derek finally moves until their cocks are rubbing together.

It's only then that Stiles notices that Derek is practically hemorrhaging slick. It drips down from his hole to dampen Stiles’s pubic hair.

“Use it,” Stiles urges.

“Mmmphf?”

“You’re dripping all over me. Use it to slick me up.” He squeezes Derek with his thighs. “Come on. Haven’t you teased me enough?”

“Never,” Derek replies. But he reaches back to gather some of his wetness while he distracts Stiles with another slow, meandering kiss.

Of course, with one hand probing at Stiles’s prostate, the other has to be back around Stiles’s knot like a vice.

“Holy mother of god,” Stiles shudders. He thinks his eyeballs are rolling back into his skull.

When he finally looks down his body at Derek, his nipples are puffy and his omega is smirking.

“I don’t know if I like alpha-Derek,” Stiles groans, but he makes sure to keep his tone teasing. “You give him an inch and he takes a mile.”

“I’m going to give you more than an inch,” Derek replies, straight-faced.

That has Stiles dissolving into giggles, soon cut off by the addition of another finger covered in omega slick.

“I swear to god, Derek, if you keep this up I’m going to bite through my fucking lip. It’ll be bloody and gross and you’ll feel sorry.”

Derek snorts. “No I won’t.”

And then he leans back in and _sucks_ the head of Stiles’s cock down into his mouth without releasing the hand on his knot. Stiles lets out a surprised shriek.

“I’ve created a monster,” Stiles bemoans, as Derek swirls his tongue around the head.

Derek adds another finger.

Stiles writhes. He feels impaled on Derek’s fingers. They move in him so slowly and so firmly, like a relentless machine.

“You ready?” Derek asks, finally, after for-fucking-ever.

“I was ready, like days ago,” Stiles bitches.

But that’s all Derek needs to hitch Stiles’s legs up onto his shoulders and thrust in with one solid push. Stiles does bite through his lip then, he thinks. Or maybe he's just remembering the taste of their bonding.

“Okay, I refuse to believe you’ve never done this before,” Stiles pants once Derek bottoms out, rotating his hips ever so slightly without actually thrusting. He's a horrible tease.

Stiles thinks Derek might actually be blushing. “Not with another person.”

“But?” Stiles demands.

“But you won’t meet a male, alpha or omega, who hasn’t tried to stick his dick into _something_.”

Stiles bursts out laughing. “What? What was it? Please tell me it was a pie!”

Derek rolls his eyes, silencing Stiles with quick, sharp jabs against his prostate. “How do you like that, omega?” This time, no stiffness or irony. “Is it good for you?”

“So good,” Stiles acknowledges. His eyelids flutter. His gaze is going unfocused from all the stimulating: his prostate and Derek’s hand moving up and down his cock. Stiles marvels at the fact that Derek is strong enough to support himself on one arm while he thrusts.

“Do you want to come, baby?”

“So bad.”

“Are you going to come on my big, fat cock?”

Stiles nods. Even if he believes Derek has never done this before, he can’t fathom that he’s never thought about it. “Your cock feels so good in me, alpha.”

Derek moans. He’s starting to sweat now. His shoulder muscles bulge behind Stiles’s thighs. He thrusts harder so that Stiles has to brace himself on the headboard behind him. The added bend shifts the angle just so. Derek is hitting Stiles’s p-spot full force now.

“Come on,” Stiles cries. “Fuck me good, big guy. Knot me.”

“Stiles, I don’t have a--”

“Fucking knot me, Derek.”

Derek nods. Then, with a very un-omega grunt, he comes, biting down hard at Stiles’s neck when he does it.

Stiles howls. Between the pain/pleasure of the bite and the fact that Derek has finally released his knot, Stiles wouldn't be surprised if he choked on his own orgasm. His cock swells up so rapidly that Stiles thinks he hears the rushing sound of his blood leaving the rest of his body. The pleasure is blinding. It’s not as intense as bonding, but it’s a near thing. Stiles can smell Derek’s contentment, the utter relaxation as his sterile ejaculate spills into Stiles. Their combined scent is one of pure, unadulterated happiness.

Derek is clumsy with euphoria, breathing roughly into Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles lets his legs slip down Derek’s sides, until he can wrap them around Derek’s waist. Even though the omega can’t help but rapidly shrink afterwards, Stiles holds onto him tight. He wants him to stay inside like they're knotted.

“You were amazing,” Stiles manages. He pets at Derek’s hair. “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

“I didn’t knot you.” Derek actually sounds disappointed, like maybe if he just tried hard enough it could happen.

Stiles snorts. “You did more than enough, big guy. I’m going to be feeling you for days.”

“Really?” Derek seems concerned.

“Male alphas might have the same p-spot, but we’re not built to give birth to a baby through that particular hole. Or go through one to three straight days of fucking each month. You’re tougher than we are. Why do you think I'm so jealous of you guys?”

“I didn’t hurt you?” Derek’s eyes are drooping, but Stiles knows he won’t rest until Stiles is okay.

“Nah. You gave me the right amount of can’t-sit-tomorrow.” He gives Derek a quick kiss. “You’re perfect, you know?”

Derek lays his head down on Stiles’s chest, like he’s listening to Stiles’s heartbeat. “You too.”

They fall asleep like that.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles flings the door open to reveal a harried-looking Melissa holding so many bags she might as well be a Christmas Tree. Stiles almost falls over when she dumps them on him. Apparently a two-year-old needs a massive amount of stuff. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just embraces her. 

“It’s fine. Scott will be alright,” he says, even though he has no idea if that’s true. Stiles might be all about reproductive health, but he knows next to nothing about pregnancy. What he does know is that any kind of embolism is bad and he’s scared to death for his step-brother.

He still feels the heart-racing panic of waking up at three in the morning to Melissa’s strained voice, trying to be strong for her boys. “Stiles?” she had said. “Scott’s had a pulmonary embolism. It’s a complication of his pregnancy. He’s okay for now - in the hospital. Allison is with him.”

“I can be on the next flight out,” Stiles said without even pausing to think. Scott is his brother. No, he’s Stiles’s soulmate, in a totally platonic way. “I’ve been making more money recently and my job can be flexible. I just have to tell Derek, but I’m sure--”

“Oh, Stiles, that’s wonderful, honey, and I’m sure he’d be glad to see you, but I was hoping that maybe you’d do something else for me.”

“Anything.”

“Your apa’s down in Houston for that seminar. He’s going to try to get back here, but I already booked myself on the 7am out of SFO. Ruth and I are in the car now. I should have gotten one of her usual babysitters to take her, but I just grabbed all her stuff and got us into the car. I know there’s nothing I can do, but--”

“He’s your son, Melissa. I get it.”

“So I can drop Ruth with you? Just until your dad gets home?”

“Of course.” 

It was an easy decision. Stiles would do anything for Scott and for Melissa and Ruth is his sister. He knows nothing about babies, but he’ll manage.

Melissa doesn’t saying anything, just wipes the tears from her eyes. She points to the bags she handed him. “Diapers. Toys. Snacks. Clothes. DVDs and books. She has her blanket with her in the car. I didn’t bring her crib, but she’s been sleeping with us some nights, so it should be fine. Stroller is in the trunk. Um, that’s all I could think off. If you need anything, just buy it. I’ll reimburse you.”

She pauses, staring down at the bags arrayed on the glossy wood floor of the apartment. They look ridiculously out-of-place next to the black leather couch. “Stiles? This place is a lot nicer than where you were before.”

“It’s a long story,” Stiles replies, wincing. He hasn’t wanted to tell his apa about Derek, not when he already disapproves of Stiles’s career. By extension he hasn’t talked about it with Melissa. “I can tell you in the car.” 

Melissa seems glad for the distraction of Stiles’s messed up work and love life. At least she’s more patient and less judgmental than his apa.

Ruth sleeps all the way to the airport, ignoring the first rays of dawn that marshal just as they pull into the parking lot. It’s only her mother’s kiss goodbye that rouses her, and then only for a moment.

Today is about Scott and Melissa and, of course, Ruth. Stiles is shocked when, just as they’re about to say goodbye on the curb, his step-oma turns to him and asks, “so you’re in love with him?”

“No,” Stiles denies on principle, but then, hushed, “yeah. I think maybe.”

Their embrace lingers. Melissa grabs her hastily thrown together duffel and leaves before they both cry. She’d always been there when Stiles was growing up. She took care of more than her fair share of bruised knees and joint principle's office visits. But by the time she’d gotten together with his apa, Stiles had grown accustomed to the tender-hearted hole where his oma used to be. Today is the first time in years that he’s felt like he had an omega parent. He aches, thinking about it.

Ruth realizes that her oma is gone about halfway home. She proceeds to let Stiles know how unacceptable that is for approximately the next three hours. She’s old enough to form sentences, most of which are some variation on ‘I want mommy,’ ‘no!’ and ‘Tiles is a poopy.’ The last time he saw her, five months ago for Thanksgiving, Ruth had barely been able to say his name. 

Stiles eventually bribes her by making grilled cheese and putting on Dora the Explorer. He has an anxious phone call with a crying Allison and one telling his dad to just stay down in Texas until the seminar ends in a week. He lies and says he has the week off. If Derek won’t let him keep Ruth around the apartment, he’ll find a hotel. 

He’s been a bad enough brother, not driving up to see Ruth since he started his job with Derek and taking fewer and fewer of Scott’s calls. The jealousy was misplaced, but he feels even worse about it, now. He didn’t even know that Scott was having health problems with his pregnancy. Isn’t that something best friends should be able to talk about with each other?

Well, that stops now. He’ll take time off after Derek gets through his egg donation. He’ll take Ruth for a while to give his parents a second honeymoon. He’ll visit Scott and Allison and play with the baby, assuming he makes it through this. He’ll force his dad to drive down for a Giants game. He’ll do anything to be a full, engaged part of his family again. He should never have let his embarrassment or his feelings of loss get in the way of his relationship with the people he cares about the most.

With a shaky sigh, Stiles picks up his phone and dials Derek, bouncing Ruth on his hip to hopefully keep her quiet.

“Stiles?” Derek picks up on the second ring. Stiles had forced him to give up his real phone number after their accidental bonding. “I’m about to head into a meeting. Is everything okay?”

Stiles tries not to think about Scott in a hospital room on the other side of the country or Melissa’s worried face. “No.”

“Are you alright? Did something happen? Do you need me to come home?” Stiles doesn’t even pause to revel in the fact that Derek calls the apartment where he now sleeps most nights ‘home.’

“I’m fine for now. It’s, um, Scott. My step-brother.”

“I know. The pregnant one?”

“Yeah. There’ve been some complications. He’s in the hospital. My apa’s at a conference in Texas and my step-oma flew out to Boston to be with him. I told her I’d watch Ruth until my apa gets back in a week. Is that okay? I can get a hotel or hire a babysitter when I’m with you in the evenings. You don’t have to sleep over here if you don’t want. I know I probably should’ve asked you first, but it was so sudden and--”

“It’s okay, Stiles. Don’t worry about it. She can stay with us. I’m sending Aiden over to do the baby proofing and pick up some kid-friendly food. She’s two, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. My nephew and niece are three and seven. I’ll get off early and swing by Laura’s place and pick up more kid stuff. I’ll see you tonight.”

Stiles stares at the phone after Derek hangs up. He can’t believe that Derek is taking care of him again. It's no small favor, agreeing to be saddled with a two-year-old and everything that entails for an entire week. Maybe Kira is right. Maybe he doesn’t give Derek enough credit. Just because he’s a mess in a few key areas of his life doesn’t mean that he isn’t ridiculously competent in others.

The exhaustion of staying up most of the night and then dealing with Aiden and powertools hits right around four. He gladly lays Ruth down in the bed for a nap and crawls in after her. He curls up around her, feeling her porcelain smooth skin and her warm breath as she nuzzles into his neck. She smells like family -- his apa and Scott and Melissa. He didn’t even know how much he missed it until he had her in his arms.

When Stiles wakes up, the sun is setting and he’s muzzy and disoriented. He panics when he notices that Ruth is no longer at his side until he hears voices coming from the kitchen. Ruth’s excited babble nearly drowns out Derek’s sober monotone.

Stiles indulges in a brief moment to splash water on his face, putting on extra deodorant and giving up on his bedhead as a lost cause.

What he sees when he emerges from the bedroom nearly chokes him with emotion. Derek is holding Ruth on his hip, their heads pressed together as they sort through dinosaur nuggets.

Derek is all smiles, letting Ruth pull at his shirt and poke him while explaining why Pterodactyls are the tastiest. 

Ruth inherited her mother’s dark curly hair and the virulent Stilinski whiteness. Combine that with dad’s green eyes and she looks like she could pass for Derek’s daughter. In fact, she’s got enough Stilinski traits that she could easily pass for Derek’s daughter _with Stiles_. Stiles gulps. He feels like his chest cavity is collapsing and his heart is five times too big.

God, Stiles realizes, he was so understating things when he said he just loved Derek. He loves everything about him: from the growly face he shows the world, to his love of baseball, to his secret sci fi nerd, to his decisiveness, to the way he’s managed to survive as an omega in an alpha’s world, to the fact that he’s more natural with Stiles’s own sister than Stiles will ever be. 

He loves this man, but this is also a heartbreaking moment, because he’s not sure if Derek will ever have this. Yes, Stiles is thinking more and more about making Derek his omega for good, but that doesn’t mean Derek, still on the verge of getting an oophorectomy, will ever want kids himself. Stiles hates that he may never have his own child hanging off his hip, rubbing her scent onto his neck and squealing over dinosaur nuggets. But, Stiles thinks, if it means giving Derek what _he_ wants for a change, Stiles might be willing to forgo that too.

“Hey,” Derek says, smiling. Ruth squirms in his arms, wanting to be let down to say her own hello to Stiles. “You slept in.”

“I’m like the world’s worst babysitter,” Stiles moans. “I didn’t even wake up when she did. I’m going to make a terrible apa.”

Derek rolls his eyes, like he won’t even entertain the notion. “You’d make a wonderful apa and you know it. And you didn’t endanger her. She was playing with her stuffed cow in the bed with you. I took her out here so I wouldn’t wake you. You looked tired.”

“Thanks,” is all Stiles can say to that.

***

Ruth ends up sleeping in bed with them. Stiles offers to go buy her a children’s cot, but Derek apparently doesn’t mind her cold toes sneaking under his thighs. Stiles takes her around town during the day while Derek is at work. So far he's been to the park, the library, and the California Museum of Science. He's even been a huge hit with a Meetup group of stay-at-home alphas. 

Derek has been under the weather recently so they mostly stay at home in the evenings. The doctor performing the egg extraction tested his hormone levels and decided to start him on a few of the fertility meds early. They won't extract until the following heat and only if the next one comes on schedule. Stiles hates that Derek is going to have this rough, exhausted look for at least another month.

Stiles’s apa calls on Friday. Scott got out of the hospital a day ago, but he’s on strict bed rest and still at risk for a miscarriage. Allison has to go back to work and Melissa is still worried. Stiles tells his dad to go to Boston. He and Derek can take care of Ruth for a few more days.

“So you and your omega don’t mind having our little terror running around?” his apa asks.

Stiles groans. He didn’t think Melissa would tell on him. Then again, judging but the fond, indulgent tone, she clearly hasn’t told her alpha the whole story. Like the part about Derek being a client.

“She’s not a terror.”

“So she’s not bothering you two? When you put her on earlier, I heard her babbling something about doing someone named Derek’s hair. Taking care of a two year old can be a little much for a new relationship.”

Stiles laughs at the memory of Derek with pink My Little Pony barrettes sticking out of his head like a pincushion. He'd made his grumpy cat face, but it only delighted Ruth more.

“No. That was actually pretty hilarious.”

“She seems to really like him. And if my daughter approves--”

“Derek likes her too,” Stiles cuts him off. The last thing he needs is for his apa to show up and disrupt the fragile peace he and Derek have carved out for themselves. The sheriff got his title for a reason. He’ll sniff out the convoluted nature of the relationship and then background check the hell out of poor Derek. 

“Do I smell more grandchildren on the way?” It’s nice to hear his apa chuckle, more carefree than he’s sounded since the beginning of this terrible mess with Scott.

“Um, apa, about that--” Stiles babbles.

“Because, you know, I never thought I’d get any grandkids out of you. Biological ones, I mean. You were always so into being gay. Going to all those rallies and taking care of your instincts with the heat therapy stuff. To be honest, I never really blamed you. I mean, bonding is a tough business and marriage is even tougher. You were entitled to your fun. I’m just happy that you finally grew out of it.”

“Apa--” Stiles doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He thought he and his apa were long past this homophobic bullshit. And the sad thing is that Stiles's apa has no idea he’s even doing it. He’s _happy_ , trying to show his acceptance, even. But that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. “I’m still bisexual. Even if I settle down with an omega, that doesn’t mean it was just a phase.”

“I know. I know. But can you really fault an alpha for getting excited? You haven’t dated an omega since Heather and I know how much that--”

“Don’t,” Stiles blurts. It’s been almost ten years. He should be able to talk about it. But not now, with his dad being a jackass, Scott in the hospital, and Derek in the other room, obliviously playing legos with Ruth.

“Alright, son.” Resigned. They’ve had this conversation too many times. “I’ll just check in on Scotty.” It’s the sheriff talking now, giving orders. “Melissa said you have a flexible schedule, so maybe you can come out after we make it back home? Take a little pressure off Allison until her omega is back on his feet?”

Stiles winces. He hates having to play to his apa’s traditionalist ideals when all he wants is to shout about yet another casual dismissal of his sexuality. “I’m sorry, apa, but Derek’s heat is just normalizing. He went off long-term suppressants a little while ago and I don’t think I can leave him when it’s due in about a week. I can make it out there afterward, though.”

“He went off suppressants? Stiles, why didn’t you tell me? You’re always so damned secretive. If it’s that serious, we would have driven down to meet the omega. Have you bonded?”

That’s exactly the question Stiles wants to avoid, but he answers anyway. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated meaning you don’t want us to throw you a bonding party, I bet. That’s such good news, Stiles. You know I miss you, kid?”

“Yeah, apa, I miss you too.”

In spite of all the bullshit, Stiles really does. 

“Tell Scott I love him,” he adds right before they hang up.

“Was that your apa?” Derek asks. He has Ruth dressed up like Aladdin and riding on his shoulders. 

“Carpet, zoom!” Ruth says.

Derek lifts her up easily and zooms her straight into Stiles’s chest. 

“Yeah, being a giant dick as usual.”

“Dick,” Ruth repeats.

Derek looks horrified.

“Please.” Stiles rolls his eyes, even though it’s cute that Derek is worried. Maybe he's concerned because he wants to make a good impression on Ruth's parents. “You have nothing to worry about. Thanks to Scott her first full sentence was ‘I needa poop.’”

“I needa pooooop!” Ruth says.

“Really?” Stiles asks her.

“Maybe?”

“Alright, munchkin. I think it’s bedtime for you. Uncle Stiles and Uncle Derek are taking you to the beach tomorrow, remember?”

He's hesitant about a beach day when Derek is still feeling sick, but Derek swears that the cramps and the nausea are getting better. He wants to give Ruth some memorable experiences while her parents are away.

“Not tired,” Ruth yawns.

Stiles tickles her into submission.

***

Unlike at the baseball game, everyone on their family outing to the beach coos over the opa they'd like to fuck and his cute daughter. Having Ruth tucked between them on a beach blanket works some magic that reveals Derek’s inner omega to the world. To Stiles, he looks and smells the same, but maybe there’s something especially nurturing about him. He cuddles Stiles’s sister close when she gets scared of the sand and patiently explains 'why seagulls?' 

Whatever it is has Stiles’s inner alpha preening. That and the sight of Derek’s gorgeous physique while he pours himself into a worn wetsuit and goes for a surf. Stiles is just happy he's feeling better.

Even more amazing is that Derek doesn’t seem bothered by the assumption that he and Stiles are mated and Ruth is their child. He smiles graciously when an old man compliments her behavior and leans into Stiles’s embrace when another surfer calls them a cute couple. Stiles is even delighted when he scowls protectively at an alpha who tells Ruth to be quiet when they stop at Starbucks on their way home.

Stiles is returning from a quick trip to the bathroom when he feels his heart stop in his chest. Derek is bouncing Ruth up and down on his knee, but every other part of his body is stock still. 

Stiles recognizes the silhouette standing in front of Derek immediately. Shaved head, mocha colored skin, stout and soft without being fat. Even without the labcoat, he knows it’s Deaton. And of course he has to run into them on the one day where Derek isn’t wearing his usual $1,000-a-bottle scent blocking lotion.

“Ah, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton turns, like he sensed Stiles behind him. Derek’s stony expression certainly hadn’t given him away. “I figured I’d find you here.” He taps his nose. “I always know.” As usual, Deaton has no idea how creepy he’s being. If Stiles had a dollar for every time he had to explain to a patient that Deaton is just a little quirky, not trying to harvest their soul....

“Hi Deaton.”

“I had a hunch a dedicated lifer like you wouldn’t just up and leave the clinic for no reason. I never thought it would be for an omega, though. That’s more the style of the college crowd, not veterans like yourself.” He’s cheerful even while being derisive. Stiles hates him.

“Stiles is starting his own business,” Derek jumps in. “He wants to focus on skilled training for partners of physically limited patients.”

“Why, Stiles, that’s a wonderful idea. Though I have to say I’m a little baffled why you didn’t come to me. I would be glad to help you. I think I know quite a few potential investors for you.”

“Actually, Derek is my main investor,” Stiles replies uneasily. “I brought it up with him and he gave me the funds to pursue it full time.” It’s not exactly a lie. Deaton doesn’t need to know that they had a private contract or that Stiles bonded Derek when he was supposed to be his therapist.

“Oh, that’s excellent! Still, I would be happy to talk this up with my colleagues. There is quite a lot of dissatisfaction amongst the less money-minded of our cadre about the way heat clinics tend to operate. If you could forward me a business plan, I’d be glad to look it over.”

“Unca Derek! Lolli!” Ruth demands, yanking on Derek’s beard as a barrista walks by with a tray of cake-pops. “Please!”

Derek still looks bewildered by Deaton’s presence and Stiles wants to be left to lie his pants off in peace, so he nods for Derek to go buy a cake-pop for Ruth.

“Uncle Derek?” Deaton asks. “I thought I smelled a bonding on you two, but that’s quite serious, is it not?”

Stiles shrugs. “That’s my half-sister, Ruth.”

“I remember you showing me the pictures.”

“My step-brother. You remember him. Allison’s boyfriend?” Deaton nods. “He had a pulmonary embolism as a result of pregnancy. Our parents are out in Boston taking care of him. I get Ruth for a bit. She calls everyone our age auntie and uncle. It’s easier, with the age gap.”

“So you’re just business partners then?” Stiles can't tell if Deaton is suspicious or if this is his way of looking out for Stiles's romantic life. Stiles has no idea how to answer.

Derek chooses that moment to return with the cake pops. He immediately presses himself to Stiles’s side, holding Ruth on his other hip. “No,” he says. “We’re a couple.”

“I see,” Deaton says, looking like he’s seeing all too much. “Well, good day, gentlemen. And to you, young lady.”

Ruth buries her face in Derek’s neck, shy and unconsciously scenting him. Stiles doesn’t blame her. Deaton is terrible with children.

With a final nod, Deaton scurries away. 

“Holy shit!” Stiles half-whispers. “I can’t believe we just ran into him. We aren't even in SF.”

“Holishi!” Ruth says.

“It’s fine,” Derek replies. “I already had Marin bury the contract. So what if he knows we’re a couple? He said it himself: that’s common.”

This is not how Stiles wanted to hear from Derek that he thinks of them as a couple. Not that he’s been rushing towards the Define the Relationship talk either. In fact, he’s still not ready to discuss what happens after Derek finally normalizes. 

“How do you even bury a contract?” Stiles wonders.

Derek shrugs. “You were always billed as a contractor. I assume Marin just added some things to make it look like the payments were to support you while you set up you company, like you just said. I was going to invest in your business as part of a corporate program, but it won’t be any trouble to take it out of my personal accounts instead. Marin used to be Deucalion’s employee. She’s had a lot of practice at this type of thing.”

“So we don’t have anything to worry about?” Stiles asks.

“No, of course not,” Derek replies. He leans in and kisses Stiles, provoking a squealed demand for attention from Ruth. “I’m not going to do anything that would make you lose your license. I’m going to take care of you.”

Stiles wants to feel reassured. It would be so easy, with the scent of his bonded and his flesh and blood so near, Derek’s strong arms around him. But there’s doubt lingering at the edge of his mind.

Maybe it’s just a guilty conscience.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek has his last heat before the procedure. Kira calls another clandestine meeting.

Stiles rolls over on a Wednesday morning to find Derek still in bed with him. The scent of omega has permeated every inch of this place, but it’s sweeter today, a fresh breath to greet the morning.

“Mmmm,” Stiles purrs, reaching down to cup Derek’s ass and pull him closer. Their legs intertwine casually. “Not a sight I’m used to: a gorgeous omega in my bed on a weekday after dawn.”

Derek blinks lazily at him even though it’s obvious he was awake before Stiles. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes glassy. He presses his forehead to Stiles’s. “My heat’s coming, probably hit tomorrow,” he whispers, then tucks his head into Stiles’s neck like an overgrown kitten. “I called in.”

Stiles smiles. “So you’re going to deign to let me know you’re in pre-heat this time.”

“It seemed wise. Last time, you were angry,” Derek states with all the remorse of a serial killer. Stiles boggles at how sometimes Derek can be so desperate to please and then make a left turn into brutal indifference.

“Damn right I was. This time I was prepared, though. I already told Aiden to clear your schedule starting this afternoon. That means this heat is on time.”

Derek nods. “Last one.”

Stiles pulls back. It’s too early to have this conversation, but he supposes that it will always feel too early. Right up until it’s too late. “Last one before you donate eggs or last one?” he inquires, trying for aloof but probably succeeding in interrogatory.

Derek looks away. “That depends on you,” he says carefully.

“On me?” Stiles blurts. “I told you, Derek. You have to want for yourself and not for me.”

“I know. That’s what the shrink said, too.”

Stiles is glad to hear that Derek has picked someone at least more-or-less competent. He’s tried not to get too involved, however. If Derek doesn’t want to share about his therapy sessions, then he shouldn’t have to. 

“But the thing I want depends on what you want.”

“Okay,” Stiles replies. He feels hope blooming cautiously in his chest. Could it be that easy? Could he and Derek want the same thing? “What do you want?”

Derek pauses. He licks his lips with nerves. “I want to be with you,” he utters, stuttering at first, but then, defiant, “I want you to be my alpha. Give me the bond bite again, for real this time.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, because what else can he say? This is a dream come true.

“I know we met as patient and therapist, but some people meet on World of Warcraft or in traffic court. Just because we started with a professional relationship doesn’t make what I feel for you less real.”

“Okay,” Stiles repeats.

“And I won’t get the oophorectomy. Not only because you don’t want me to. I know, at least Dr. Walker has told me, that I need to want things for me and not you. But this isn’t a want. It’s objective.”

“Okay.” Stiles lets the skepticism creep into his voice. He doesn’t know how Derek can claim anything is ‘objective’ when he has that manic look in his eyes.

“I needed the oophorectomy because my doctor said I was getting too old to stay on suppressants full time. If I couldn’t stay on suppressants, then I had to have sex with an alpha and an alpha would use my heats against me. But you don’t use my heats against me so I don’t need the operation anymore.”

“Okay.”

“I know you’d rather have sex with other alphas, but I can be _better_ than all of them if you’ll let me try.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, pulling Derek into an intense, biting kiss. Derek tastes of mint and Stiles has yet to brush his teeth, but he doesn’t care. “I said ‘okay’ you idiot. I want to be with you too.”

Derek’s smile is incandescent. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Do you think I’d break the rules for just anybody?”

“I think you’d break the rules for a bag of Doritos,” Derek replies. “If they were rules you didn’t believe in.”

Stiles starts to protest, but when he thinks about it, that’s actually pretty accurate. He’s always been irreverent, immature according to some. “That’s what I love about you,” Stiles eventually responds. “You so get me, dude.”

Stiles can see Derek’s happiness at the compliment warring with his hatred of being called ‘dude.’ “C’mere,” Stiles beckons. He cups Derek’s jaw and draws him in for a few sweet pecks. “I like you better than a bag of Doritos. And let me tell you, I like Doritos a lot. Like I would marry Doritos.”

“I know,” Derek wrinkles his nose. “I’ve found enough disturbing orange powder to prove it.”

“Delicious cheesy goodness, you mean.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking when I found orange fingerprints on my ass.’”

Stiles giggles. “Not my fault you distracted me during Stiles/nacho cheese bonding time. Really, it’s Doritos that should be jealous of the steamy love affair I’m having with your ass. I don’t think they’ll take kindly to you cuckholding them like that. Especially the Tapatio ones.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as your face.”

Derek snorts, but lets Stiles roll him onto his back. They undulate their hips together gently until a lazy orgasm leaves them both with a sigh.

Derek dozes while Stiles cleans them up. The main force of the heat shouldn’t hit until the evening, but Stiles doesn’t know how Derek wants to handle the pre-heat.

 _This is good_ he tells himself, kneeling next to his omega and watching the soft rise and fall of his chest. This is what he’s wanted this whole time. Derek cares about him. He takes care of him. He’s sweet and smart and has a great sense of humor. Their sex is amazing. There’s no reason he shouldn’t just dive in headfirst. He should lock this down before Derek finds a much classier traditional alpha to satisfy his needs. It shouldn’t feel like a hollow victory when Stiles is getting everything he ever hoped for.

 _You weren’t expecting it,_ he argues to himself. That’s all. Things had been stagnant for so long that Stiles forgot what it felt like to make progress in life.

He kisses Derek on the cheek and heads for the kitchen to start his pre-heat routine. He makes a few pitchers of fresh squeezed lemonade to keep their blood sugar up and keep them hydrated. Then he starts some homemade mac and cheese to carbo-load later on. Next, he sends Aiden an email, drags out extra linens, opens a new bottle of lube, and sets up an array of sexual aids on the nightstand. Derek has been fine with just Stiles’s cock up until now, but the IVF can intensify an omega's heat.

Stiles is in the middle of cooking them a huge, greasy breakfast when he hears the sounds of retching from the bathroom. He pulls the bacon off the stove and rushes in to find Derek crouched over the toilet, his eyes glassy and hair sleep-rumpled.

Stiles strokes the sweaty fringe at his nape until Derek leans back with a sigh. 

“You okay?”

Derek nods. “It’s the IVF treatments,” he grumbles. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure, dude? Do you wanna call your doctor?”

He shakes his head. “He said nausea is one of the most common side effects.”

“Okay.” Stiles hands Derek a towel and helps him stand.

“Omega hormones are already going crazy during heat. Adding drugs just makes it worse.”

Stiles nods. He’d researched this when Derek first announced that his doctor wanted to start treatment. He just wasn’t prepared to see normally stalwart Derek looking so pale and exhausted. 

Stiles is proud of him, though. The struggle to have kids is a pressing concern in the queer community, one that he thought he’d be facing one day. With female alphas being able to gestate a baby, the demand for donor eggs is high. It's the expense of the process and the health risks to the donating omega that keep it out of reach for many couples. If Stiles needed more reasons to love Derek, seeing him willingly go through this for his sister adds to the pile.

Thankfully, Derek feels well enough for breakfast, which Stiles brings him in bed. Derek drops his silverware half a dozen times and seems to forget he’s eating mid-chew. Stiles maybe freaks out a little. Okay, a lot. But according to PubMed, dizziness and exhaustion are also common side effects.

“I don’t think I should bite you,” Stiles says while he’s cutting up Derek’s sausage, lest the omega accidentally stab himself. Derek looks utterly dejected until Stiles clarifies, “not this heat, anyway. Bonding hormones are just another factor that could complicate things. Your health is more important.”

“But--”

Stiles gives Derek a greasy, hash-brown tasting kiss. “I want to be your alpha as much as you want me to, but I want to take care of your more. We’re already good as bonded. It can wait until you’re not on Frankenstein’s drug cocktail.”

Derek nods, but he’s clearly frustrated. “I’m sure it would be fine.”

“No. We can wait. It’s not like I’m going to change my mind. Are you?”

Derek shakes his head vehemently.

“Besides, it’s probably better this way. We can finish our contract together, even if you did have your legal hitwoman do whatever she does to things. Then when there’s absolutely no way I could be considered your heat therapist, we can do it properly. A whole big party and everything.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “You want that?”

“Sure. Why not? I mean, I never say no to an opportunity to celebrate. And my apa has already been making noise about a bonding party.”

“You told your apa about me?” Derek smiles.

“Well, Melissa was here twice and Ruth babbled to him all about you. I had to explain my new digs and her Uncle Derek somehow.”

“Oh.”

“I didn’t think my apa would appreciate that I kept leaving his daughter alone with a _client_ , so I said you were my omega.”

Derek frowns, looking dejected.

Stiles nudges him. “It’s not that far from the truth, right?”

Derek grins. “Right.”

“So you don’t mind?”

Derek shakes his head, but then his brow furrows. “A bonding party is the traditional thing to do.”

Stiles imagines that his past alpha insisted on one. It would stake her claim in traditionalist circles. 

“We don’t have to have one. Or it doesn’t have to be a big deal. My apa would just want a backyard barbecue.”

Derek shakes his head. “Laura would never agree to that. She’d see it as a missed opportunity to network.”

Stiles’s heart stutters. He’d forgotten all about Derek’s sisters and the mysterious family business. They’ve been living in a bubble -- an apartment that might as well be a secret love nest, no last names, no meet-the-parents, no corporate functions. Stiles knows Derek is rich, but he literally has no clue what he’s signing up for if he comes out of the woodwork as Derek’s partner. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was too busy imagining how I'd show off my gorgeous, sophisticated urbane omega in my dad’s humble backyard in Beacon Hills. I forgot about your family.”

“If that’s what you want, I can convince Laura. She wouldn’t ask me to go against my alpha’s wishes.”

“No. I want to make your sister happy too. I’m sure we can compromise. It’s just that I have no idea what comes next. I mean, does she know that I’m your heat therapist?”

Derek winces. “She, um, doesn’t know about any of this.”

“ _What?_ ” What kind of brother wouldn’t tell the sister he sees _all the time_ that he’s doing something this major. How would he even keep it from her? If he’s donating eggs, she would figure out that he was going off suppressants and that he’d need a heat therapist at his age. They work together for C hrissake. “What about your heats? She must have noticed you taking three days off nearly every month.”

Derek looks sheepish. “She travels. We don’t see each other often. She’s the CEO. My job is to step in for her when she’s out of town.”

“Yes, but you’re donating eggs for your younger sister. She must know about that.”

Derek frowns. “Cora and Laura don’t talk to each other much. The only thing they agree on is being overprotective of me.”

“Okay, but you could have talked to her about it.”

Derek sighs. “Cora was fourteen when our parents died. Laura coped by trying to win control of the company and Cora coped by rebelling. Laura didn’t have time for the outbursts of an angry teenager and I, um, wasn’t much help. It was the usual: alphas siblings butting heads. Things were...tough for a long time. Cora doesn’t ask for things. She had to really want this to even bring it up. She would see it as a betrayal if Laura knew.”

“So you just planned to suffer in silence? You were going to have a pretty fucking invasive _surgery_. Who was going to take care of you afterwards?”

Derek shrugs. “Ethan and Aiden. That’s why I pay them.”

Stiles clenches his fists. He knows that this is all a symptom of Derek’s low self-esteem, probably created by abuse, but it makes him cringe. Derek should value himself more. He should demand more of the people who love him, because those shitheads should have pushed harder to get Derek better. How can they ask so much of him without trying to stop how much he’s hurting?

“Well you don’t need them anymore, because now you have me.”

“Really? You’re going to remember to pick up my dry cleaning? Make phone calls to important alphas? Buy coffee for my interns?”

“Okay, maybe the two terrors are useful for something. I’m just saying that I care about you and I’ll be here for you, no matter what.”

Derek’s smile is small, but it seems more genuine for it. He interlaces their fingers and then brings Stiles’s hand up to his lips to kiss. “Okay.”

“Good,” Stiles replies huffily. 

Derek’s nausea seems only to worsen the closer he gets to heat. Stiles spends the day watching Netflix on the couch and stroking his fingers through Derek’s hair as he dozes. He gets worried enough to text Kira at one point, but she only offers empty reassurances that Derek doesn’t need a doctor.

***

“Just a little, baby,” Stiles begs, holding a bottle of electrolyte replenishing formula to Derek’s lips. “For me.”

Derek shakes his head, sending some fluid cascading down his chin and into the tangled mat of his chest hair. “Not thirsty.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles replies. His concern makes him snappish. Derek ducks his head, looking contrite. “Derek, You need to drink.”

“Need you,” the omega begs. His hands shake when he grabs for Stiles. “Please, alpha. I need your knot.”

Derek’s pupils are dilated and his skin coated in a thick sheen of sweat. His dark hair sticks up in unruly cowlicks like a pincushion and he’s flushed all over, especially on his lush, swollen lips. It’s one of the most attractive sights that Stiles has ever seen. But he can’t indulge himself, not when the professional in him has calculated Derek’s fluid intake over the past day. It's not enough.

Derek’s past heats have been relatively mild. After a few initial knottings to take the edge off, he’d peak at an easy four and a half hour cycle, with plenty of time to nap and eat between. Derek even ended up working from home during the third day of the last heat they shared. That was nothing compared to this.

It’s only been a day of true heat, but Stiles already feels that gutted delirium that comes from alpha blood pressure drop. He’s dehydrated and hypoglycemic, despite how much he’s forced himself to drink and eat. This must be what they mean by “aging out” of the heat therapy field. The skin around his groin feels rubbed raw and his cock …. Stiles shudders at the idea of a strong wind, let alone another knotting, no matter how badly he wants to.

“You aren’t getting my knot until you finish this,” Stiles tries. Derek is nearly incoherent, but maybe something will get through his heat-fogged brain.

Derek whines, but he accepts the bottle. It takes two hands for him to hold it steady.

“You stay put. I just need to grab something,” Stiles commands. Normally, a command from his alpha will compel an omega in heat. Derek just whimpers and lunges for Stiles when he tries to leave the blast zone that is the bed.

“I’m just getting something off the nightstand. You can handle five seconds of separation.”

Stiles doesn’t like seeing his normally assertive, in control omega like this. Derek has been the one to top two out of three times since they first tried it and he’s fallen easily into the dominant role. It’s disconcerting to see him reduced to begging like this.

“No,” Derek says when he sees what Stiles has retrieved.

“Cool your cucumbers. You don’t even know what it is yet,” Stiles complains.

“Don’t care. Want your knot.”

“Yes, yes, you omega, me alpha.” Stiles rolls his eyes. Sometimes being a heat therapist is like being the only sober person at a frat party. “You want my nice thick juicy knot, breed you, blah, blah, blah.”

“Need you. Pump me full of seed. Want to swell so much with your cum that you knock me up. Give me your baby.”

Stiles’s traitorous dick twitches. Even though it’s just cliche, meaningless heat babble, he wants nothing more. He’s not _immune_ to Derek’s heat, after all. “Yes, yes, I’ll give you a baby, but right now, we’re going to do something else.”

Derek shakes his head. He tosses the now empty bottle of replenishing fluid across the room and yanks Stiles between his legs. The desperate, all-consuming kiss is almost enough to distract Stiles. Then Derek shimmies his hips in a way that pulls on every one of Stiles’s sore spots.

“Hey!” Stiles protests. “No!” Derek pouts and makes a grab for Stiles’s cock. “Stop it, Mr. Grabby hands. That is not on the table right now.”

Derek frowns. “I’ll be good, alpha.”

“I don’t doubt that, but I’m tapping out right now. Unless you want my awesome alpha knot to fall off, you’re going to have to let me take a break.”

Derek starts to nod but then another heat wave drags him under. He bites his lip and clenches his fists, but it’s too intense. He ends up rocking back and forth with his legs wrapped tight around Stiles, sobbing. “I can’t. I can’t, alpha. It’s too much. I can’t wait. I’m sorry. Stiles, I’m sorry--”

“Shhh, shhhh.” Stiles tries to soothe his writhing, distraught omega. “You don’t have to wait. I’m going to take care of you. Stiles takes good care of his omegas, okay? Just let me pull this on and then I’ll fuck you real good.”

He gives Derek a lingering, filthy kiss, miming what he loves to do to Derek’s swollen hole with his tongue. Derek clings to his shoulders so tight that Stiles knows he will bear the marks for the next week at least. It feels wonderful, despite his utter exhaustion, to have his omega so desperate for him, only him.

“I love you,” Derek murmurs when Stiles finally pulls back. In the throes of heat, it’s something that Stiles has heard many times before. He gulps. If Derek weren’t slow cooking in hormone soup right now, he would jump at the chance to say it back. But he wants the first time Derek hears it from him to be special. Instead, he gives Derek a quick peck before pulling back to yank his harness on.

It looks like a knee brace, but instead pulls up to mid thigh. An electric yellow dildo protrudes from the harness like the world’s most awkward barnacle. Luckily, it makes up in functionality what it lacks in style. Stiles uses it for patients with mobility issues, because it gives him more control in delicate situations.

“I don’t want that thing,” Derek complains as Stiles douses the dildo in lube. Derek is dripping slick, but Stiles would rather play it safe. Derek might have a long way to go this heat and Stiles doesn't want him to flame out too early. “I want your cock.”

“Yeah, well we don’t always get what we want, Derek,” Stiles replies, more caustically that he would like. “You’ll like this, trust me.”

Despite all his protests, the intense heat of the past day has worn Derek out. He doesn’t have the strength to put up a fight when Stiles expertly lines himself up and uses his knee to thrust the dildo in. It’s a big one, from Stiles’s personal collection rather than a narrower therapeutic model. Stiles likes to imagine the cock that has been inside his own body so many times now pounding into Derek. They’re dildo brothers.

“I don’t like it,” Derek grumbles, but it’s hard to hear between his gasps.

“Sure you don’t,” Stiles pants as he slams into Derek harder. His muscles scream in protest. After this he’s going to sleep for a week.

Stiles is fascinated by the way the dildo stretches Derek’s greedy hole. It’s not as wide as Stiles’s fully inflated knot, but it’s getting there. A less progressive alpha would feel threatened by the girth.

“Oh god,” Derek whines as Stiles teases him with slow, methodical thrusts, even easier to control than his own cock. 

“See?” Stiles taunts. “Not so shabby.”

Derek makes an incoherent sound halfway between a grunt and a whimper. 

“That’s it, big boy. Take my fat cock.”

Derek nods. He has his eyes closed now, sighing with each relentless thrust.

“You’re being so good for me,” Stiles continues. “You’re taking so much. I love opening you up. I’m going to get you nice and open and gaping and then, once you’re nothing but a sloppy, loose hole, I’m going to fill you to the brim.”

“Yes,” Derek gasps. “Please.”

Despite his solid build, Derek’s seems suddenly fragile. He shakes in reaction to Stiles’s thrusts, biting his lip and whimpering a little. He’s undoubtedly sore, but that doesn’t stop him from rocking up to meet Stiles. The beauty of the knee harness is that Stiles is positioned farther up Derek’s body. It’s easy for him to lean down and pepper kisses all over his sex-flushed face. He needs less leverage, so he can run his fingers through Derek’s damp hair as he works him over.

Once Derek begins to move his hips in that impatient, searching rhythm that Stiles is so familiar with, he activates the knot. It's an awkward pump that looks strangely like a blood pressure cuff attached to the dildo by a hose. The stretchy silicon inflates with air inside Derek like a balloon.

Derek squirms and cries out, but Stiles knows that this is an inadequate replacement for a real knot. Stiles pushes the button to detach the knotted dildo from the harness so he can pull Derek into his arms, squeezing him as tight as he dares. He peppers the inchoate mating bite with as many soft kisses as he thinks Derek will tolerate without demanding he complete it. Stiles breathes in his omega’s scent and wishes he could fuse them together, forever. He could die drowning in the smell of _them_ , absolutely content.

“Oh, god,” Derek groans. He bites his lip and then just collapses back against the bed with a sigh. Stiles is disappointed to note that his orgasm is completely dry. It’s to be expected at this point, considering he’s at twenty-three orgasms and counting. 

An omega’s temperature can drop post-orgasm, so Stiles gathers a shivering Derek against him under the comforter. He kisses him on the forehead, hoping he will doze and give them both a break. 

Barely five minutes pass before Derek shrugs the covers off weakly, reaching for Stiles’s cock again.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Stiles tries in the face of Derek’s uncomprehending look. He grabs the questing hand and kisses it. “I want nothing more than to get my cock up in you to pump you full of spunk, but it’s just a matter of physics. Friction, really.”

“Stiles,” Derek gasps. His heat fever is spiking. His eyes dart about, not able to focus on even the clearest signals from Stiles. 

Stiles sighs. He might as well say it. “I love you, Derek. I know this is tough, because you’re hurting right now, but you’ve got to trust me on this. We need to pace ourselves if you don’t want to end up in the hospital on a ketamine drip.” Stiles doesn’t mention that’s what will be happening next month while the doctors extract the eggs. From what he’s read, it’s a brutal process that leaves the omega so off-balance and drained that some take weeks to recover.

“I trust you, alpha,” Derek replies. 

Stiles winces. He’d love to hear that if it wasn’t in that robotic, parroted tone, like a child reciting lines.

He knows that Derek doesn’t like the harness, but he’s not expecting the omega to break down crying when he pulls it out again.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Stiles panics.

Derek cries silently and stoically, just tears cascading down his cheeks like rain dripping down the face of a statue. Someone taught him to hide his misery, Stiles realizes. 

“Why don’t you want me, alpha?”

“Oh, Derek,” Stiles sighs. Derek’s tears sting his parched lips when he kisses him. “Of course I want you, big guy. You’ve got to understand. I’m not getting it up right now without a fucking Viagra enema. You have completely exhausted me. But I’m going to make you feel good. Just let me….”

Derek shakes his head violently, almost knocking it back against the headboard. It’s the clumsiest Stiles has ever seen his omega. The heat fever has him completely now. Stiles will be shocked if he remembers any of this once it breaks. 

He reaches into the bucket he retrieved during Derek’s last thirty-minute nap. The ice is almost melted, but he doubts that Derek would be cooperative enough to keep it pressed to his skin anyway. Stiles lets his hands chill until he can barely feel his fingers before laying those cool hands on his lover. First his sweaty brow, then eliciting a long moan under his armpits, then pebbling his tight nipples, and then finally cooling the inflamed skin around his groin. Stiles stares in fascination as the ice shrinks the vestigial omega dick. Derek squirms and pants, but the way his neck arches makes Stiles want to lean in and bite.

“Stiles,” Derek protests, making a half-hearted attempt to push him away.

“Shhhh. It’s alright, baby. I know what I’m doing. You need to cool off a bit and then I’ll help you come again.”

“You know what you’re doing,” Derek spits. It’s angry, all of a sudden. Mood swings are one of the many symptoms of the stupid IVF meds.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I’m icing your junk, dude, but you’ll thank me later when you can cool off and finally get some rest.”

“You know what you’re doing because you’re a heat therapist.” 

“Duh,” Stiles snorts, even though Derek barely has two braincells to rub together to generate that thought.

“How many omegas have you had?” Derek demands.

Stiles keeps a log somewhere for licensing purposes, but he frantically tallies it at the end of the year and then promptly forgets. He shrugs, going for a few ice cubes now that Derek is distracted by his fevered interrogation.

“You’ve had a lot.” Derek looks up at him, still flushed but more clear-eyed thanks to the ice.

“Yeah.” Stiles has never felt any shame in it, though he’s been called a gigolo and a player and a knotjammer. It’s only Derek’s utterly defeated expression that makes him question his past.

“I’m just another one. A client to be managed with these _things_ ,” he gestures to the line of dildos with near-comical contempt. “You’d do this for any cripple with a sob story. Use a fake cock so you don’t even have to touch them.”

“Okay, first of all, let’s steer clear of the ableist slurs when referring to my other patients, many of whom I happen to actually like. Also, I don’t use therapeutic tools because I am avoiding touch, especially you, who I fucking love touching. I use them because it’s the best way to help.”

Derek pulls Stiles’s hands to his stretched-out, leaking hole. Stiles immediately obliges him with three fingers thrusting in deep. “You don’t get it,” Derek gasps.

“What don’t I get?”

“I don’t want you touching _them_. I know that I can’t compare to all the omegas you’ve had or heat sex as many times a month as you want. I want this for me,” he whispers, slowly stroking Stiles’s cock. “I want you to knot me and come in me and get me pregnant and I don’t want you to touch another omega ever again.”

Stiles laughs ruefully. As loopy as Derek is, it’s still a ridiculous idea that Stiles would want anything different. “You don’t have to worry, Derek. I have my company, remember? The one you’re helping me with? I like helping my patients, but you are the best omega for me. The others couldn’t ever compare.”

“But heat sex is the best for alphas. If you can get it all the time--” Stiles grits his teeth. He hates nothing more than the modern heat-player trend. The end of sexual repression has seen the dawn of sexual douchery. Shows like Entourage and characters like Barney Stinson make it seem like all alphas want nothing more than 24/7 heat sex. Fuck that. Heat sex is an orgasm buffet, but simple biological instinct isn’t the only satisfying thing in life.

“Yeah, heat sex is great, but trust me, doing it all month is a full time job. It’s work. What I have with you can’t even compare.” Stiles doesn’t know that he can promise that he’ll never have to do another session, but he can say, “I don’t want to knot anybody else or give anybody else babies, okay? It’s you that I love.”

Derek still seems confused, but he falls back against the pillow when Stiles adds another finger to his slow probing. If the toys remind Derek of Stiles’s work, then he doesn’t have to use them. He grabs some cinnamon flavored lube with his free hand and douses his entire fist in it. Derek clenches tight around him as he works his fingers into that small hole. Derek’s warm and wet and it’s almost miraculous how he draws Stiles in.

“Not enough,” Derek grunts. His muscles clench and unclench like a vice, but Derek just flails desperately on Stiles’s fist. He hooks his legs around Stiles’s shoulders and tries to draw him in. 

Stiles licks the cinnamon lube from around Derek’s cloaca. He twists his fist back and forth, jabbing at Derek’s p-spot with his knuckle. Stiles has no idea why he loves the cinnamon and omega juices combo, but it’s better than even a donut burger with a side of Doritos.

Stiles slurps at Derek’s rim obscenely. The sound is soon drowned out by Derek’s cries of “harder,” “faster,” “more.” Stiles knows he probably shouldn’t, but he’s a stubborn bastard and if Derek is going to yell at him to “just fucking give it to me, Stiles!” then Stiles is going to give him both fists, god damn it.

Derek sighs blissfully once Stiles slips another finger beside his fist. Of course, he’s back to ordering Stiles around on the next breath, demanding like an alpha. “Come _on_ , Stiles, you can do better than that.”

Before Stiles knows it, he’s sliding his other hand in around the first to form a giant knot. Derek grunts like an alpha when Stiles hammers his p-spot like a wrecking ball. 

“You asked for it, big guy,” Stiles replies when Derek whines. “Look at you, taking both my fists like a champ. And you’re still so tight. You’re gorgeous.”

He leans down to lick at the rim again, rocking his hands until Derek starts to sob. It’s only the mantra of “don’t stop, please, god, Stiles, don’t stop” that keeps him going. Derek barely pauses to orgasm. If not for the telltale flutter around his clenched fists, Stiles wouldn’t even have registered it.

“I could eat you out all day,” Stiles says, as he goes back to his rim job. “You taste so fucking good. You taste like _mine_.”

Derek whimpers. “That’s because I am. Yours. I’m yours.”

Stiles is the one who whines now, because even though he knows it would be bad to bite Derek now, there’s nothing he wants more. Derek already smells like him, but there’s something missing. His inner alpha is still restless, insecure. He knows how amazing Derek is, how perfect. He needs to grab a hold of that while he still can. He needs to cover Derek in his scent, knot him, mate him, _breed_ him and never let him go.

Stiles was so focused on Derek’s pleasure that he hadn’t realized that he’s hard. He's leaked a slick trail down Derek’s shin where he’s been rutting against him. His balls are heavy and swollen, provoked by his omega’s heat.

He pulls his fists out a little too quickly, eliciting a gasp and then a whine from Derek. Stiles doesn’t have time to soothe because he’s thrusting into Derek in the next moment. Derek’s so loose that there’s no friction to irritate his sore cock. It feels like being swallowed up by molten silk. Stiles doesn’t even thrust. He knots almost immediately, spilling wave after wave into that welcoming heat. Derek grabs at Stiles’s shoulders and wraps his legs around his waist and just holds on for the ride. 

Stiles has no idea where his body found the moisture or the energy to flood his mate like this, because he’s never come this much in his life. Counting the rest of the heat, Stiles has come enough that Derek’s belly is starting to feel ever so slightly tight with cum. 

“As soon as you’re done donating, I’m going to knock you up,” Stiles gasps. He’s still fucking coming, in small waves that ebb and flow with the soft twitches of Derek’s internal muscles. “I’m going to bite you and fill you with my seed. My awesome little sperms are going to make their way up your tight channel and they’re going to swell your belly. You’re going to get round with my babies. I’ll give you triplets. No, quintuplets. I’ll fill you up to the brim. You’ll be so full of me that you’ll waddle around in your tight alpha suits and everyone will know that you’re mine.”

In the back of his mind, Stiles is aware that he sounds like he’s come unhinged. He’s always found heat babble amusing in his clients, but it’s almost scary how little control he has of the words coming out of his mouth. Who could blame him? He’s knotted with the most perfect omega he’s ever met: strong and beautiful and sarcastic and in charge. This is the love of his life and he smells intoxicating: ripe and desperate and claimed. There’s something subtle underneath, like blinding light and pure potential.

“... I’ll do it, alpha,” Derek is babbling right back as he rocks his hips to tug at the knot and prolong Stiles’s orgasm. “I’ll take up your seed and I’ll grow so big with it. I’ll be so fat that I won’t be able to get up from my desk and I’ll be proud to carry your kids.”

“Damn right you will,” Stiles grunts. He feels darkness start to creep on him. He really hopes that this is the end of this wave, because he thinks he’s about to pass out. 

He blacks out with Derek stroking his fingers through his hair. 

His dreams are sweet.

***

This time, Kira asks to meet in a Starbucks. She’s not dressed like a cartoon secret agent anymore, but she forced him to meet in Sunnyvale, where nobody knows them. Derek was nice enough to let Stiles take the Camaro because Stiles is leaving for Boston tomorrow and he needs to come right home to pack. Stiles is too nervous to even enjoy the sweet ride.

Kira’s mouth is a thin straight line and she won’t meet Stiles’s eyes. Stiles skips the stomach sinking feeling and floors it straight into hyperventilating/about to vomit.

“What did you do?” he accuses.

Kira shrinks in on herself with a smile that is almost all wince. It’s the patented defense mechanism of the cute but awful and Stiles hates it.

“Kira!” he shouts. Stiles isn’t very alpha the vast majority of the time, but he can pull out the intensity when it’s needed. Kira flinches and ducks her head in omega submission.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles.” She’s tearing up a napkin between her fingers.

“Fuck, Kira, you had one job. One job! To keep your goddamned mouth shut.” Stiles isn’t usually a yeller, but he’s furious now. This is his whole career on the line and they were so close to getting away with it. Too bad Kira is only looking out for herself. If she just kept quiet, Deaton had nothing on them.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, but I thought Deaton knew already. He said that he’d seen you and Derek together and that you’d bonded. He said he never expected you to end up with a client like those gold-digger kids. And then he started talking about how you two jumped the gun on the bite and I just…. I couldn’t! He was going to figure it out!”

“Oh my god, Kira. How? How was he going to figure it out? There’s no paper trail. Derek loves me so he’s not going to rat us out. It was all--” It was perfect and now his whole world is crumbling down. He doesn’t care if he never takes another client again. He’s not an ethical risk to anybody. He just needs his license so he can run his company. It’s a great idea and his patients shouldn’t have to suffer just because Kira can’t hack it in the moral gray area. 

Kira pulls her legs up onto the uncomfortable cheap coffee shop armchair and wraps her arms around them. She hides her face in her knees. With the super hero leggings and the pigtails she looks like defenseless omega child, but Stiles knows better. She’s a snake. No, she’s a deranged bee, stinging for no reason when her hive isn’t even in danger and now they’re both going to go down because of it.

Stiles’s rage burns cold. His voices drops low and deadly. He grabs her wrist to try to pull her attention from her knees so she can realize how much he wants to see her burn. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“Stiles,” she whispers. “You’re hurting me.”

He looks down to find that he’s digging into her wrist with a white-knuckled grip. She’s a black belt. She’s letting him, he realizes. 

“Sorry.” He takes a moment to calm his breathing, looking out the window at the suburban strip mall. This is the land of franchises and gated communities and the plasticized, cookie cutter life. His rage is incongruous. He doesn’t belong. “Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe you can tell Deaton you were wrong. There’s still no paper trail. It could--”

“No, I won’t,” Kira replies. Finally, she’s looking him in the eye and though he sees sadness and regret, he’s also surprised to find anger burning there. “Maybe if I hadn’t said anything Deaton wouldn’t have found out, but now he knows everything. And it’s okay, Stiles, because he can protect us if we turn ourselves in. Deaton has sway with the licensing board.”

Stiles snorts. He broke one of the central tenants of the ethics code and, according to Kira, the law. Kira is a doctor. Stiles is just a licensed heat therapist, who are a dime a dozen. Nobody will bend over backwards to hold onto Stiles when the whole field is a revolving door.

“Deaton can protect _you_ , you mean.”

“No, he can protect both of us!” Stiles wishes he could have that much faith in a man who acts like a mysterious fairytale witch on the best of days. “Look, I admit that my case is easier. I wasn’t getting paid and Derek was no longer a patient at the clinic and I was never his doctor. It’ll probably go on my permanent record, but Deaton says he’ll keep me on.”

“That’s great for you, Kira, but what about me? What about Derek?”

Kira sighs. “Deaton says you have two options. You can either stay with Derek and lose your license or you can cut all ties with him and grovel to the board. Deaton can pull some strings. You’ll get a suspension and maybe have to retake some of the quals, but you’re a great therapist. You’ll pass for sure.” She gives him a small, encouraging smile. 

Fuck. It feels awful, like he’s being eaten up by acid from the inside, but it’s not unexpected. Ever since the bite, he’s known that if anyone found out it would come down to this. It was always going to be a decision between his job and Derek.

“He’s just had his last heat before donating eggs. I can not see him for a month or two. That’s doable,” Stiles tries. Even though it would hurt like hell and there’s a chance that Derek could move on from him, what's two months in a lifetime as mates?

“It would be more than a few months,” Kira says. “The level of bonding hormones was low after just the bite, but you’ve just shared another heat. That helps cement the bond. You’re probably looking at more like five months.”

Stiles gulps. “Five months. I guess I could do that. That’s not that much. It’s less time than it takes to have a baby or play a season of baseball or train for a marathon.” The worlds sound hollow. Five months is an eternity.

Kira winces. “I don’t want you to worry, Stiles, but Deaton says that they could want you _never_ to see him.”

“How would they even know? It’s not like they can file a restraining order without Derek’s cooperation.”

“Stiles, if your company is successful, it could be a game changer. You’re hitting at the right time, with Obamacare and the push towards preventative, outpatient treatments. You’d been in the spotlight of the medical and therapeutic communities. You’d always be under scrutiny, especially with Derek being your main financial backer.”

“Fuck.”

Kira smiles kindly, though it’s tough to see through the regret. “It may not come to that. Look, the point is that you need to get out in front of this thing. You have to decide which you want more: Derek or your license.”

“I want Derek,” Stiles says without hesitation. 

Kira smiles. “That’s good, Stiles. It’s wonderful.”

She grabs his hand and they just stare at each other, smiling smiles that they only partially mean.

***

Stiles should be packing or maybe relaxing before his 10pm flight to Boston or browsing the internet for more things he can do to entertain Scott now that he's on bed rest. Instead, he's watching Derek pace like a caged animal.

“I’m going to slaughter him,” Derek roars. He paces back and forth in the living area, suit jacket and tie fluttering around him like battle flags. Stiles is embarrassed that he's a little frightened. “I’m going to grind him into the ground and I’m going to rip his throat out with my teeth.”

“Okay, wow, um, I hope that’s figurative, because I’d hate to see you go to jail for the rest of your life and, creepy thorn-in-my-side as he is, Deaton’s not actually a bad guy. I mean, he’s been basically my mentor and he helped Scott get into med school. He takes good care of his patients, I--”

“Of course it’s figurative!” Derek shouts, too angry to look betrayed. “But he isn’t a good man. He’s out for himself and only himself.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks. “He’s doing this for _you_ , you know. He’s always been an advocate for patients. He thinks I’m taking advantage and -- who the hell knows -- maybe I am!”

“No, Stiles. If he were trying to protect me, he’d give me the choice. If he were a good mentor to you, then he’d keep this to himself. Maybe he’d insist that we stay apart for a while until the bond fades. That's at least reasonable. Heat therapists mate their clients all the time. Don’t pretend he somehow has the moral high ground just because you think what we’re doing is wrong!”

“I don’t!” Stiles yells back out of pure knee-jerk contrariness. He hates being told what he thinks. He knows what he thinks and, yes, biting Derek was very, very wrong, but their relationship isn’t. Their relationship is the best thing that has ever happened to Stiles and it seems like the best thing that’s ever happened to Derek too. He isn’t giving it up because Deaton is a tool and can’t see that.

Derek scrutinizes his alpha, but must find whatever he's looking for, because he’s much calmer when he speaks again. “I know it’s tough to see it. You looked up to him and you don’t want to feel like a fool for doing all the things you did when you believed in him, but this is not for your own good. He’s using you. There’s no reason to go to a licensing board. What doctors ever think that the licensing board is on their side? When is it ever actually the best way to resolve things? Licensing boards are for power plays. Or they’re for covering your ass.”

“Okay, so he’s covering his ass. It sucks, but Kira did tell him. That’s a conspiracy of four and that never ends well. If it comes out and they find out he knew and didn’t report it, then his neck’s on the chopping block too.”

“No, it’s a power play. He knows your clinic is going to be big and he knows that I’m practically bonded to you. He knows who I am and what my company is capable of. He wants in and you already didn’t go to him for help. He tried to offer financial support and marketing but you still weren’t interested.”

“Only because I didn’t want him to find out about us! I would love his help. I was going to ask him as soon as you and I were in the clear.”

“He doesn’t know that! Stiles, so long as you have me and your license, you don’t need him. If he goes to the board then he wins either way. If you have trouble with your license, you need him to be the medical face of the company and your mentor. If you break up with me, you need his financial backing. Going to the board puts you back under his thumb. That’s exactly where he likes you.”

“Jesus Christ! When did you get so paranoid? Deaton gives off a weird vibe, but he isn’t out to get me.”

“Stiles, you have to listen me on this one. You know your thing, but I know business and, trust me, I know how it feels to be manipulated. Deaton is your colleague, not your friend and he’s just acting in his own economic self interest. I don't blame him for that. I'm just going to crush him in order to protect you and your company. _That's_ what I'm good at. Let me help you.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe he’s not my friend. Maybe he has an ulterior motive. But the fact is that I fucked up. I fucked up and I deserve whatever happens because of it. The licensing board isn’t an unjust punishment in a game of corporate chicken. It’s what happens when you break the rules. I broke them. End of story.”

“So what if you broke them? Nobody got hurt. And people get away with all kinds of things all the time. Do you really want to be the noble sucker who gets the book dropped on him when the truly corrupt ones will just get out of it with a lie? Do you want Deaton to take over your company? We can fix this.”

“And how do you plan to fix it? I called Deaton. He says he has no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Derek replies. His eyes glimmer. He looks shrewd, dark, destructively handsome, old. “And I’ll make him see the choice he should make.”

“Because that’s not ominous at all! Derek, you’re not going to threaten him, are you?”

Derek shrugs. “Not physically.”

“Derek!”

“Look, power plays aren’t made by the incorruptible. Deaton has secrets like anyone else and he has pressure points just waiting to be found. He can be bribed with a position in your company. He can be blackmailed. He can be sued.”

“For what?”

“Marin will think of something. My point is: there are a hundred ways to deal with this.”

“And Kira? She folded like a house of cards.”

“I can handle Kira. You said her family had problems with the Yakuza, right?”

“No, Derek,” Stiles sighs, finally collapsing back onto the sofa. It's not that Derek is wrong. Stiles made an ethical breach, but both he and Derek are better off for it. It's a victimless crime. But the deeper they've gotten themselves into this mess, the harder to get themselves out. Their sentence has already increased from two months to five. What if this comes out down the line when the company is established? When they're mated? When they have children who will wonder if apa coerced opa into marrying him like some creepy sultan in Arabian Nights?

“It’s not worth it.”

“What are you talking about, Stiles? Of course it’s worth it. Unless--” he looks down at his hands. “You don’t think I’m good enough.”

“What? No! Of course you’re good enough! That’s not what I’m saying at all I’m saying, let it happen. Let it go before the board. I’ll probably lose my license, but I’ll be with you. That’s not the worst thing.”

“But, Stiles, your company--”

“I’ll keep working on the business plan. You can use my idea in your startup lab or hire Erica to run it. Or Deaton. Or if it doesn’t work, maybe I can just be a stay-at-home alpha?” he gives Derek what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I mean if you want. Not that I would force you to support me financially. I can find another job or when you’re ready to start a family, I can stay home with the kids.”

Derek stares at Stiles for a long time before he says softly, “I don’t want you to give up your future for me.”

“My future _is_ you,” Stiles blurts, even though he knows it’s sappy.

They look at each other, examining, posturing, not smiling. Stiles doesn’t reach out to pull Derek to him. Derek keeps looking away and then back like he can't stand to look at Stiles, but he might disappear if he doesn't. 

“You should pack,” Derek says eventually.

“I should pack.”

Stiles hates to leave things like this, but Derek isn't his only family. He'll never not be there for Scott when he's needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The harness Stiles uses is something like this one:  
> http://www.babeland.com/thigh-harness/d/2874
> 
> The knotting dildo is similar in principle to an inflatable butt plug like this one:  
> http://www.amazon.com/Colt-COLT-Inflatable-Butt-Plug/dp/B001FS1R44
> 
> However, please note that several of the sex acts in this chapter are not recommended to be tried at home. Liberties were taken due to the nature of the alpha/omega universe.
> 
> At home:  
> -Flavored lubricants should not be used in the anus and especially not in the vagina. They often contain sugar, which promotes the growth of yeast and other unhelpful microorganisms. They can also have irritants such as mint, which could cause sores or tears in the anus. 
> 
> -Gloves should always be worn during anal fisting, both to protect the rectum from scratches and to stop any small cuts on the hands from getting infected. They also make cleanup easier and prevent fecal transfer to sheets and other nearby items.
> 
> -Double fisting is possible, but should be done with extreme care. Tearing from any kind of anal play can lead to anal fissures, which are dangerous if they become infected. There’s also prolapse and tearing a hernia to worry about.
> 
> -Rimming should not be undertaken without a barrier. Even the oft-recommended plastic wrap is not certified to serve as a barrier. It doesn’t have the same quality control testing as condoms, dental dams, and surgical gloves, though it’s undoubtedly better than nothing. In the very least, a shower should come first (some also use enemas beforehand, though it doesn’t eliminate the presence of microorganisms).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles visits Scott and Allison in Boston. He returns to Derek with a new perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to three new betas: sarahcatastic, ficcinDylan, and lassierais.
> 
> Hopefully there's enough context clues, but here's a quick cheat guide to some of the fic's medical jargon:  
> VDD - Vas Defrens Device. This is a made up form of alpha birth control, which I imagine is like a mix of and IUD and this real life technology, hopefully on the market soon: http://www.newmalecontraception.org/vasalgel/ . I decided that a society with heats would be more incentivized to crack the non-condom male birth control problem earlier on in history.  
> Heat call - being either the "on call" doctor at a heat clinic (i.e. the one who will make themselves available if medical intervention is necessary) or taking a client's heat as a heat therapist.  
> PE - short for pulmonary embolism. This is a dangerous condition in which a blood clot gets lodged in the lungs. Elevated risk during pregnancy. Only marginally well-researched, so I'm not actually sure if Scott would be up and about at this point. I do know that in our world he would have likely had a miscarriage if he'd had one at this point in the pregnancy.  
> Body buddy - real life term for one of the people who gets assigned to dissect the same cadaver in med school.

Stiles stumbles through the endless airport terminal in a daze. He hadn’t slept much the night before, too worried about Kira and Deaton and Derek. His exhaustion feels like a tangible weight in the pull across his shoulders and the ache behind his eyeballs, made worse by his contorted dozing on the the plane and getting stuck with the douchey twin as chauffeur. 

Of course, in his current state he’d rather deal with Aiden than Allison and her endless supply of compassionate, dimpled smiles.

“Stiles!” she shouts. Not concerned about propriety, she throws herself into his arms like an omega greeting an alpha back from war. Stiles has no idea how she manages to keep her sleek, alpha-cut business suit completely unwrinkled.

“Wow, Allison,” he mumbles into her hair. “I wasn’t expecting that kind of welcome.”

Allison punches him in the arm like she does with all her alpha friends. It hurts. “I haven’t seen you in almost a year, asshole!” 

“Yeah, I wonder why,” he groans, making a show of rubbing his abused bicep. “Can you please try to remember that you’re not back at the frat house? Some of us have nothing to shield ourselves with but our sarcasm.”

Stiles is struck by a sudden wave of just not wanting to be here. He’s tired and cranky and he'd rather be at home, cuddled up with Derek on the couch. Why is he in an airport terminal, pretending to goof around with Allison like it's still college and they still have space in their lives for each other? 

He loves Allison, he has to remind himself. She’s not just Scott’s alpha and part of the gang. She’s Stiles’s friend and she hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s an asshole for thinking otherwise. 

He came out here to support his friends and that’s what he’s going to do. Scott was in the hospital. It doesn’t matter that Stiles left things tense with Derek or that it’s killing him to be away from his omega right now.

“Sorry, Stiles.” Allison looks contrite for a moment. “I just…. We really missed you.”

If she missed him, then where was she? She could have come back for Thanksgiving instead of working. She could have called, instead of just yelling over Scott on Skype. She could have not taken his best friend thousands of miles away or gotten him knocked up and almost killed him. Stiles tries not to be resentful, but it’s an uphill battle.

Allison leads Stiles towards baggage claim with a hand on the small of his back. He always forgets how tactile she is. She grabs his luggage immediately, recognizing it by the giant rainbow flag pasted on the side.

“So, how was your flight?” she asks once she has successfully loaded his luggage into the back of her massive black Land Rover. It’s a staggeringly inane question for Allison. 

Only then does Stiles pause to recognize the dark circles under her eyes, hastily slathered in concealer. There’s strain at the corners of her usually effervescent smile and her movements are stuttering and haphazard, like a traffic jam.

Stiles grabs her arm before she can hop into the driver’s seat. “How is he?” he says gently.

“Oh, you know, as well as can be expected,” Allison mumbles. “The doctors say that, as long as he takes his medication and doesn’t try to overwork himself, he should be okay.” She says it like it’s a death sentence.

“That’s good news, right?” Stiles tries.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” She nods, focusing on pushing her hair behind her ears and not on Stiles.

“I mean, there isn’t anything else, is there?” Suddenly there’s a pit of dread in his stomach. It’s not like Allison to show any kind of stress. She’s always been her ama’s golden child - stoic, strong, athletic, everything an alpha is supposed to be. Even during the year she worked as a heat therapist, Allison had always been the one unabashedly straight, driven alpha in their little band of queers and directionless bums.

“No,” Allison shakes her head. “God, no, Stiles. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry. Scott’s fine. He really is going to be okay. The baby, too.”

“Thank god.” Stiles lets out a slow, relieved breath. Even if they’re not in each other’s lives the way they used to be, Stiles doesn’t know what he would do without Scott. For so long after his oma died, Stiles was numb. He just floated along, forgetting that there was right and wrong and good and bad and love and hate. Scott had been his heart and his conscience. He’d trained Stiles how to _want_ again. He'd shown him how to feel and how to make decisions instead of just letting life happen in his general direction.

Stiles didn’t rely on Scott for that anymore, but what if he needed him? Who would help him recover from Scott’s own death? Would Stiles even be able to come back from that?

“He could have--” Stiles gulps. He can feel tears starting to gather at the corner of his eyes, but he can’t break down, not in front of an alpha’s alpha like Allison.

“Yeah,” Allison says. She gets into the driver’s seat, but instead of starting the car she just stares straight ahead. Stiles is surprised to see that her eyes are glassy also.

“It’s so hard, Stiles,” she whispers. “I was so scared. He was gasping for air, coughing up blood. His lips turned blue. What if he had died? What if I had killed him?”

“Don’t think about what could have happened. He’s fine. Focus on that.” Stiles ignores the racing in his heart from just hearing about it.

“You don’t understand, Stiles.” Her tone is flat, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “I got kicked in the crotch during training so I knew there was a chance my VDD failed. I had two weeks to get it checked before Scott’s heat, but I just … didn’t get around to it. I think a part of me wanted to roll the dice on him getting pregnant. I did this. I didn’t even ask him.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose, Allison,” Stiles replies. “You just got busy. So what? It’s a thing that happens. Newsflash: Allison Argent is a human being, like the rest of us.” A small, petty part of him is happy to have that fact confirmed.

“When Scott showed me the positive test, I was so happy.”

“That’s because having a baby is a good thing,” Stiles reminds her, exasperated. “Trust me, Scott was just as excited. It was suffocating.”

“Yes, but Scott’s worked so hard to be a doctor and having a baby right now is going to make it so much worse for him.”

“It’ll be fine, Ally. Scott can take some time. They can’t kick him out for getting pregnant. And he’s Scott. Nothing can keep him down. Remember when Coach--”

Allison isn’t listening to him. “I’ve always said that I wouldn’t become one of those alphas who keeps her mate at home, pregnant and focused on the kids. But a part of me thought this would be _good_. I provide for both of us well enough. I thought that maybe once Scott had a baby in his arms, he wouldn’t want to go back. Maybe I did it subconsciously, but I must have wanted this. I’ve never been careless.”

“Even if you did subconsciously want to get Scotty knocked up, you had no way of knowing he’d have complications,” Stiles protests. “You both want kids and he would have gotten pregnant sooner or later. This is a natural consequence of being alive, not something you did to him. Just because you’re an alpha doesn’t mean you have to take responsibility for everything.”

“I love him so much, Stiles,” Allison whines. She still doesn’t turn to face him. “I know I’m supposed to be happy, but I think about the baby and I’m terrified all over again. I don’t even want kids if it means losing Scott.”

“You won’t lose Scott!” Stiles reaches out to put a hand on her arm. Allison stiffens, but doesn’t push him off. “Listen to me, Ally. We aren’t losing Scott. You guys are going to have a beautiful baby, get married, and live long, happy lives. The end.”

That’s what perfect couples like Scott and Allison do. If their storybook romance can’t end in happily ever after, then how in the hell is Stiles’s strange patient/therapist, gay alpha/abused omega, sugar opa/broke loser relationship supposed to work?

Allison nods, more to herself than Stiles. She takes a few deep, controlled breaths like an athlete before a big game. “Okay. You’re right, Stiles.” She starts the car. “Just, um, don’t tell Scott I said any of this, okay?”

Stiles nods. He isn’t happy to get between the two of them, but this wouldn’t be the first thing he’s kept from Scott for the omega’s own good.

***

Allison pulls on her patented cheery smile as they cross the threshold of their cute brownstone in Mission Hill. “Scotty!” she calls. “Don’t get up! I’m going to show Stiles his room, then we’ll come to see you!”

Stiles is surprised when she carries his suitcase up the stairs.

“You’re staying in the master. We moved down to the first floor for the rest of the pregnancy to make things easier on Scott.”

Stiles gulps. Melissa said that Scott was just recuperating. He didn’t know that Scott couldn't even handle stairs.

Of course, that’s not the case. Before Stiles has a chance to open his suitcase, the door bursts open and he’s being pulled into one of Scott’s famous bear hugs. “Stiles,” Scott breathes, patting Stiles on the back. “It’s good to see you, bro.” 

Stiles doesn’t know what he expected, but he’s surprised to see Scott on his feet, dressed in a modest henley and scrub bottoms. His stomach is rounded only enough to suggest an overindulgent feast, not a baby.

“Scott! You’re supposed to be resting!” Allison protests.

“I’m fine, Ally. Too much stillness isn’t good for me anyway. A lot of clots are caused by lack of movement. And I’m on meds now. Everything’s good with me and peanut.”

“Peanut?” Stiles asks. 

“The baby,” Scott says. He does a drumroll on his belly. Allison looks like her eyes might pop out of their sockets.

Scott just kisses her on the cheek. “It’s okay, babe. Seriously, you have to chill. Peanut’s got plenty of cushion right now. I’m only twelve weeks.” In all the drama, Stiles had almost forgotten. He’d pictured Scott with a huge swollen belly, trapped in bed and hooked up to a forest of machines. But Scott is fine. It’s a relief, but then why is Stiles even here?

“You should be resting,” Allison protests.

Scott snorts. “I rested all morning, Ally. I’m an adult _and_ the only one in the medical field here. I can take care of myself.”

Allison tightens her jaw, keeping in whatever response she’s itching to give. Stiles admires her for it. If Derek were in Scott’s situation, Stiles would want him in bed and he’d probably be a whole hell of a lot less discreet about it.

“Stiles is finally here!” Scott’s grin is infectious. “We should do something to celebrate. Maybe we can have an early dinner at that little bistro you like.”

“I have a meeting,” Allison snaps. In all the years that Stiles has known them, this is the first time he’s ever seen Scott and Allison be anything by sappily in love. He wonders if this is the natural outcome of even a storybook romance. Stiles always pictured happily ever after to mean lying around in sweatpants with a pile of kittens, but he supposes life doesn’t just stop when you find your one true love. He wonders if even sweet, progressive alphas are doomed to become overprotective? To want their omega to stay home and focus on the brood?

“Aw, Ally, do you _have_ to go? Stiles just got here,” Scott whines, completely oblivious to Allison’s stiff posture. 

She kisses Scott on the cheek, but it’s perfunctory this time. “Sorry, honey. I have to _work_. I already took time to pick Stiles up. You should rest. Stiles, you’re welcome to anything in the fridge and Scott has cash if you need groceries.” She hands Stiles a set of keys from a hook. “Scott’s Leaf is parked in the garage. It’s charging, but you can unplug it. There’s a Trader Joe’s not far from here. I’ll, um, be back when I’m back. You boys have fun.”

Scott rolls his eyes after she exits, plopping himself down on the big king-sized bed with a smile. “Sorry, dude. She hovers. Don’t let her freak you out. PEs are serious, but I’m getting treatment now.”

Stiles thinks about Allison struggling so hard to hold in her tears back in the car. She’s been working her ass off to put on a brave face for Scott and he just sees her worry as an annoyance. Stiles scowls. “So I didn’t need to drop everything and fly out here, then? You’re totally cool?”

“Allison is freaking out and she's driving me crazy. How is that going to help me stay stress free for the baby? Bad enough I had to delay graduation, but I was hospitalized! I'm exhausted and nauseous on a stupid thromboprophylactic cocktail. And I'm scared shitless about the baby."

Stiles has never heard Scott complain this much in his life.

"I just want my alpha to be supportive, but she doesn’t trust me home alone, even though I've read all the medical literature and I'm fine. I think she was going to pay the housekeeper to babysit me if you couldn’t come. I figured you could help talk some sense into her, alpha to alpha."

"Yeah, because Allison will take advice from _me_." Allison always has everything figured out. Ally A saves the day and cleans up all of Stiles and Scott’s messes.

"Dude, she respects the hell out of you. You have to make her stop. She wants me to quit rotations until the baby's born! Then I’ll be a whole year behind. Everyone still thinks omegas get distracted once they get a taste of parenthood. If I’m out that long, nobody will want to hire me.”

“I’d hire you.”

“Of course you would, dude. But I need like a hospital or a medical group, not my brother.”

“I actually wanted to talk to you about that,” Stiles blurts, sheepishly. “I’m, um, starting a company. And I was hoping, once you’ve finished your residency, that you’d want to come work with me. It could be a family business.”

Scott winces. “Um, Stiles, that’s great. I mean, it’s really, really great, but I don’t think I’m going to go into reproductive medicine. I like it, but the hours are pretty unpredictable and it’s such an _omega_ thing to do. I liked my derm rotation. It’s not that exciting, but the work/life balance is great, even in residency."

"Scott, you've wanted to be a heat doctor ever since the first time you came to pick me up at the clinic. Remember how you wanted to help all the omegas who struggle with heat deprivation and knot-denial? You thought a safe, sane heat was an omega's right? Does that ring a bell?"

"Yeah, dude. I still think that, but I have to think about myself, too. I mean, I’m pregnant now and Allison and I want our kids to be close enough in age to enjoy each other. I just don’t think an OBGYN residency would work with that. And then there's taking heat call. I don’t want my kids to smell omegas in heat all over me whenever I come home. It’s not exactly decent.”

Stiles might as well be talking to an alien. Scott has always, always wanted to help people over anything else and he loved heat medicine. He’d pestered Deaton at the clinic so much that he’d given him a job as a tech. 

Since when has Scott McCall ever done something just because it’s more convenient? Scott is the guy who spent twelve hours outside in the rain protesting Prop 8 with Stiles. He’s the guy who wore a duct tape dress to prom and forced his way onto the lacrosse team despite being both an asthmatic and an omega. He’s the guy who raised $500 singing candygrams to help his mom buy her dream wedding dress, how is a little heat call too hard? 

Of course, the thing that _really_ gets Stiles is: “So you think _I’d_ be a bad alpha if I came home smelling like heat pheromones?”

“That’s different,” Scott protests. “You don’t have kids.”

“But what if I do. One day?" They haven't talked about it, but Stiles thinks that's the plan with Derek. "You think it would be indecent?”

Scott looks away.

“What? Just come out and say it, Scott. You get knocked up and now you’re too good for the field I’ve dedicated my life to?”

“Stiles, it’s not like that. It’s just, heat is an adult thing."

“A healthy, natural adult thing. You’ve always believed that. You’re not some kind of Puritan.”

“No, but I think it’s confusing for kids. There’s a reason most OBGYNs start their careers doing heat call but go back to delivering babies once they have a family. I’m going to be an opa, Stiles. I have to stop thinking about just me and what I want and start thinking about my kid’s future. Things change. We all have to start growing up sometime.”

Stiles bites his lip. Scott’s point of view needles, especially because he’s been bodysnatched by some mature, yuppie house omega who only cares about babies and rational career choices. 

But then again, isn’t Stiles doing the exact same thing with Derek? _He’s_ giving up doing active heat therapy, starting a company, living in a grown up apartment with a guy who wears a suit. He’s settling down with an _omega_ for chrissake! Maybe getting old and boring is inevitable. A fun-loving heat therapist in the city at 22, a suburban husband by 30. Maybe they’re all on a slow, downward slide towards dermatology. They just don’t know it yet.

“Fuck growing up,” Stiles grumbles. 

Scott seems a little surprised that Stiles has limited his response to a single sarcastic quip, but he grins, asking, “Hey, do you want to play some Smash Brothers?”

“Yeah, like real grown ups,” Stiles replies.

“Dude, I don’t care. Allison doesn’t have a lot of time to play, but when we do, she always lets me win.”

“Maybe you’re just that good?” Stiles tries.

They both laugh. Whenever Allison plays with other alphas she always beats them into a pulp.

***

Allison slams her briefcase down on the kitchen island when she comes in at almost nine o’clock. Scott moves it to its designated hook without comment. 

“Are you supposed to be eating that?” Allison asks, noticing the giant bag of Doritos Scott and Stiles had demolished during a vicious Call of Duty marathon.

“Stiles ate most of it,” Scott replies, though Stiles would bet Scott ate at least half. “I had a pear.” That, at least, is not a lie.

“So, I take it you boys had fun?” Her tone is slightly judgmental, but then again, they were playing video games while she was working. She is the one paying for Scott's med school, this stupid yuppie brownstone, and their dream wedding. She’s a good alpha. Not like Stiles, who’s letting his omega go off to work to keep him in video games and fresh Doritos.

It suddenly seems so overwhelmingly adult. Allison, who once tried to break the Guinness World Record for keg stand push-ups, is now wearing a suit and responsible for millions of dollars worth of weapons sales. And Scott, who once got five marbles stuck up his nose, is going to have a baby in six months. They have a dedicated briefcase hook and snipe at each other like a married couple. They even pick sensible careers like arms dealing and dermatology.

“Did we have a plan for dinner?” Allison asks, still looking a little annoyed.

“We can order Chinese,” Scott replies.

“MSG,” she states, pointedly flicking her eyes to Scott’s stomach. “If you had told me we didn’t have anything, I would have picked something up.”

“There’s no solid medical evidence that MSG is harmful,” Scott snaps back. “Besides, one night isn’t going to hurt me. I'm having a no-nausea day. Let me indulge.”

Allison’s stern look softens in an instant and then she’s leaning across the counter to give Scott a sweet, lingering kiss. “I’m sorry. It’s just--”

“I know,” Scott replies. “We almost died.” He pats his belly so tenderly it makes Stiles’s heart ache. He’d like to see his own omega look at him that way one day. He wants _Derek_ to rest his hands on his rounding bump and smile at Stiles, looking proud to be carrying his kid. 

Allison’s eyes glisten, but she wipes them discreetly before turning to Stiles. “I’m sure I already missed all the gossip, but you have to tell me about this omega you’ve been seeing!”

Scott smacks a hand to his forehead, Homer Simpson style. “I am such an idiot. I completely forgot! I blame baby brain.”

Stiles can't believe Scott would forget something so obviously juicy. Stiles had taken the gossip-free afternoon to mean that Scott was trying to be sensitive and let Stiles open up about it in his own time. Sure, Scott is often distracted by his own drama, but he’s never completely _forgotten_ about something important to Stiles before. Stiles might have Derek now, but he still needs Scott to be there, thinking of him, _caring_. 

“Fine with me,” Allison grins. “That way I get to hear the story for myself instead of the jumbled mess I normally get out of you, honey.”

When Stiles doesn’t immediately regale them with the epic tale of how he and Derek met, he earns another punch to the arm.

“Jesus, Allison, stay out of the fucking gym! You could hospitalize someone.”

“If you’d just tell me, I wouldn’t have to hit you,” she replies smugly.

“Fine. Just lay off it, Mrs. Punchy. Derek is--”

“His name is _Derek_?” Scott says, making a face.

“What’s wrong with Derek?”

“Nothing! Keep going. I want to know what’s so special about _Derek_ that he can turn you straight.”

“I really hope that’s just pregnancy brain, because I’ve told you like a million times that I’m bisexual.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m not trying to be offensive or anything, man. I know you like having sex with omegas, but weren’t you the one insisting you're homoromantic? You never talked about being with an omega...other than the one time with the client who made you want to vomit.”

“What?” Allison asks. "Who made you want to vomit?"

“Stiles had a client so attractive that it made him want to vomit.”

“Aw,” Allison replies. “That’s sweet.”

Stiles blushes under Allison's grin. It's obvious she's happy for him. She’s probably happy to see him in a proper heterosexual couple that she and Scott can host game night with and take on double dates. Stiles has always suspected that Allison holds herself out as an example of proper alphahood, waiting indulgently for Stiles to catch a clue and join in.

She may be happy now, but he doubts she will be for long. This is it: the moment when he has to come clean. “Derek _is_ that client.”

Allison is still smiling, but Scott frowns.

“You didn’t actually vomit, right?” Allison teases. “Though, I never thought you’d be one to run off with a client.”

“Same thing Deaton said, only, you know, you did it way less like a judgmental creeper.”

“I remember when you told me about that guy,” Scott murmurs, uncharacteristically ignoring the dig about his mentor. “You said he had too much baggage. And he was out of your league. But nobody is out of your league. Just...the baggage part. What did you mean by that?”

Stiles sighs. He wonders if he'd be breaking Derek’s medical confidentiality if he tells them. Then again, if Derek is going to be Stiles’s boyfriend and not his client, Stiles needs to talk to his best friends about their _relationship_. He’s sure Derek won’t mind in any case. He’ll just be sure not to mention the miscarriage he’d glimpsed in Derek’s medical file. Now that he knows more about Derek's ex, he's not convinced it wasn't abuse-related, regardless of what Derek claims.

“His ex-wife abused him. She induced his heat at least once.”

“That’s awful,” Scott exclaims. The induced heat patients always fascinated Scott the most. That's because Scott is a bleeding heart. Stiles couldn't even stand to look at them and all their pain. He gets those cases reassigned.

Allison says, “I don’t want to sound too judgmental, but--”

“But that’s always what people say right before they’re about to be really judgmental,” Stiles finishes.

Allison ignores the protest. “Do you really think you’re in a position to fix someone like that, Stiles?”

“Why? You think I’m too screwed up?” Perfect alpha Allison probably thinks _she_ could do it. Why not Stiles? “Am I not empathetic enough? Not the kind of alpha that will stick around?” Stiles wants to sound enraged, but he probably just sounds pathetic, judging by the commiserating look on Scott’s face.

“No!” Allison exclaims. “I don’t think it’s anything wrong with _you_ , Stiles. You’re great. Any omega would be lucky to have you. I just mean, that’s some pretty intense stuff. You might be dealing with issues stemming from something like that for the rest of your life if you mate him. Some people can’t be fixed. Sometimes you have to do what's best for you and let them go.”

“Derek doesn’t need to be fixed! He needs some help, but who doesn’t?” 

Scott and Allison glance at each other, like they're perfectly fine. Maybe they're happy to pretend that one of them isn’t being massively overprotective and the other isn’t transforming into an unrecognizable _dermatologist_.

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Stiles,” Allison says. Her tone is so patronizingly alpha that Stiles just wants to punch her.

“Yeah,” Scott chimes in. “After what happened to Heather, I have to wonder about you getting so attached to an omega--”

“Nothing happened with Heather!" Stiles shouts. Scott _knows_ that Heather is off limits. "I mean, yes, she died, but she was just a kid I used to play with in pre-school. She needed a heat partner. That’s all we were to each other. This is nothing like that, Scott, so please just shut up about it.”

“No, Stiles, I won’t shut up about it, because it’s not nothing. You wouldn’t be telling me to shut up if it were nothing.” Scott is starting to get that righteous, dangerous tilt of his crooked jaw.

"Scott, if I say it's nothing, then it's nothing."

“But it wasn’t! You might have started out just helping her through her heats, but you had a partial bond with her. You had a fever from mate withdrawal. You mourned her like you were her alpha. If you've formed a partial bond with Derek, then you might not be thinking objectively about this.”

“Scott, please, how many omegas have I knotted since Heather? You don’t get to be a career heat therapist if you have attachment issues.”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Allison pipes up. “You always had a bad case of APES. I mean, post heat call I was always a little sad and a lot hungry, but you’d get physically sick.”

“That’s so not the point. The point is that I love Derek and I’m going to complete my bond with him whether you guys approve or not.”

“Complete?” Allison asks, archly.

“Yeah, we may have already had a partial bonding," Stiles winces, anticipating their judgment.

“Stiles!” Scott exclaims. “That’s really bad! Did you do that when you were still his therapist?”

“Kind of?”

Allison gasps. “What do you mean, ‘kind of’? If you did something like that at the clinic, it’s a miracle you still have your license.”

“Um, about that, I may be in a little bit of trouble with the licensing board.” At their matching looks of disapproval, Stiles exclaims, “but that’s all Kira’s fault!”

“Kira’s?” Scott gasps. “You dragged Kira into this? I thought you were going to look after her! Stiles, I told her she could count on you.”

“I did look after her! I took care of some mobster business for her. She was doing me a favor and things got out of hand. It would have been fine if she hadn’t blabbed to Deaton.”

“I think you should start this story from the beginning,” Allison insists.

So Stiles does. He was hoping that Scott and Allison would be supportive, but they just look more and more concerned the more he tells them. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Allison says. “You met an omega at your job while you were still Aping from your last session and not supposed to be on call. He convinced you to treat him anyway, against clinical guidelines.”

“Because he’s been _traumatized_ by female alphas. Like, Erica’s a stud, but she would have been sooooo wrong for Derek.”

“Okay, so he hired you privately, like you’ve sworn to me you’d never do. You quit a job you love with friends you love, dropped your apartment, stopped dating alphas. You made this guy your client, your boyfriend, your only friend, and the sole investor in your company even though Deaton offered to help and you _know_ I would too. Then you arranged an off-the-books pseudo mating bite, completely ignored textbook procedure, bonded him, erased the legal evidence of your contract, and involved Kira and Deaton in a conspiracy. And, of course, you didn’t tell your friends and family about any of it, even though you insist this relationship is totally healthy. Is that right?”

“Well when you put it like that, it does seem a little reckless,” Stiles grumbles. "Professionally, I mean." He hates admitting he’s wrong. Especially to Allison. But maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s secretly the world’s shittiest therapist and nobody has bothered to tell him because he's the rare alpha that makes this a lifelong career.

Allison rolls her eyes. It reminds Stiles of his apa and his state of constant exasperation during Stiles’s teenage years.

 _That’s exactly why I didn’t want to tell you guys,_ Stiles thinks. _I knew you wouldn’t understand._

Allison gives Scott this look: the married people look where she communicates exactly what she wants him to say.

Right on cue, Scott opens his mouth like the pretty little parrot he is. “Stiles, I love you and I’ll always support you, but you have to know that you’re making a big mistake, bro.”

Allison nods frantically.

“Why? I love Derek and he loves me! Who cares how we met? I know the two of you can't wait to judge me, but people do meet their mates in heat therapy. Not all of us can have a high school pen borrowing meet-cute like you two disgusting lovebirds.”

“Okay, I get that,” Scott says. “And I get that you think you’re in love with this omega, but you have to stay away from him. At least until the preliminary bond breaks.”

“I don’t care about the stupid board and their stupid requirements. I’d rather have Derek than my license. I mean, once we’re fully bonded, I won’t want to take on any more clients anyway, so what does it matter?”

“It isn’t about your license. If this helps you keep it, that would be an awesome bonus, but that is so not the point. Think about what’s best for Derek.”

“This is what he _wants_ , Scott. Enough people have forced him into things against his will or told him he’s too broken to make choices for himself. He’s an adult. He understands the situation. I’m just empowering his choice. That’s all.”

“You’re telling me that your own desire has nothing to do with it?” Scott questions.

“No!” the protest is automatic. “Well, fine, I obviously do have my future riding on his choice, but if Derek wanted to wait the five months, I would do it without question. You know me, guys. I’m not the kind of alpha who forces an omega into bonding. I’m the opposite of that. I do the right thing.”

“The fact that you didn’t tell us proves that you know, deep down, that it isn’t right," Scott protests.

Of course Allison jumps immediately on the bandwagon. "It’s not like you to be ashamed.”

“The reason I didn’t tell you is because I didn’t think you’d care!” Stiles shouts. He’s so angry that he’s not even sure if that’s the truth. Who is Scott to completely disappear from his life and then demand Stiles fly out to be with him so he can be all judgy like this?

Scott looks stricken, but he tightens his jaw in that brashly determined, righteous way of his. “You know that’s not true. You know I care about you and I love you. You’re my best friend and my brother and I will always make time for you.”

Stiles hates it, but suddenly, there are tears in his eyes. He feels like a big, slobbering baby in Scott and Allison’s stupid rustically modern kitchen. Scott and Allison are young professionals moving on with their lives and starting their family. They have _actual_ problems, like pulmonary embolisms and balancing career against child rearing. Stiles is stuck in high school, forming his first alpha-omega bond. One of these things is not like the other. Stiles just wishes he wasn’t always the odd one out. 

“You haven’t been there for me,” Stiles chokes out. “I needed you and you haven’t been there.”

Scott rushes to embrace him. He smells heart-achingly familiar, like rosemary and fresh cut grass. His scent always reminds Stiles of his oma, and the pregnancy only intensifies it. Stiles just buries his face in Scott’s neck, taking in giant gasps of him. Allison wraps Stiles in her arms from behind so that he’s completely surrounded by them, his two best friends in the world. How could he have gone so long without this?

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” Scott mumbles. “I had no idea you felt this way.”

“We’ve been so wrapped up in the wedding and the pregnancy,” Allison adds. “We had no idea. We should have paid more attention.”

“I’m just so lonely,” Stiles gasps. It’s the first time he’s ever uttered it. It rakes his heart with painful truth. It’s embarrassing. He’s twenty-five and crying like it’s middle school and he’s unpopular. He shouldn’t care about what other people think about him. He never has. Maybe that’s his problem.

Scott yanks him down so that they’re all sitting on the kitchen floor in a massive heap. Both Scott and Allison have tears in their eyes. It just makes Stiles more self-conscious, which in turn makes him cry harder. 

He’s not supposed to be like this. He’s an alpha. He’s not supposed to cry, but the pain has been festering, gnawing at his heart for so long that he’s grown accustomed to it. It’s like a gangrenous limb, rotting off, still attached. Now that he’s finally letting himself feel it, the pain is overwhelming. Each sob is a bloodletting, like a minuscule amputation, hacking away at the rot, bit by painful bit.

“You don’t understand. I was a mess. I didn’t even know how fucked up I was until Derek came riding in like Prince fucking Charming. He got me out of my shithole apartment and my exhausting schedule. He bankrolled my company and believed in me enough to kick me off the couch and get me working. And he was _there_. He loves me and, fuck, I’ve never had that before, okay? If I lose Derek, I’ll have nothing. I’ll have to go back to where I was before and I can’t, not knowing how it can be.”

“You won’t have nothing, Stiles. You’ll have your business. You’ll have me and Allison and your apa and my oma and Ruth. You’ll have your friends, Erica and Boyd and, even though she’s hard to get ahold of right now, I know you always have Lydia." 

Stiles had almost forgotten about Lydia. They had been close in high school, but he's seen less and less of her since she left for undergrad at MIT. He wonders if he'll even get to see her on this trip.

"And you’ll have yourself," Scott continues. "You’re awesome, dude. You’re the best friend a guy could hope for.” Scott gives him a crooked grin. 

“We maybe dropped the ball a little, but it’s not because you aren’t important," Allison says urgently. "It’s because we can’t always read your mind. You don’t have to solve all your problems and everyone else’s. You’re allowed to ask for help."

"You know that I’d do anything for you, right?” Scott begs.

Stiles looks down at Scott’s mostly-flat belly. “You can’t, though. You owe that promise to someone else now.”

Scott sighs. “Okay, fine, obviously I’m going to have a baby, but I love you. I’ll always find a way to help you, no matter what.”

“Me too,” Allison adds. “Not just as Scott’s alpha, but because I love you too.”

“Okay,” Stiles exhales. He sinks back into Allison’s arms, letting her pet him a little. He feels exhausted, but suddenly content. Maybe he just needed to let it out. Maybe Derek wasn’t ever the one he needed this kind of support from. “I know I have you guys now, but that doesn’t help me deal with the whole Derek situation.”

Scott’s brow furrows. “I understand why you like Derek. I think he’s good for you and you’ve obviously been helping him, but if you want him to have a real choice, you have to separate.”

“Why?” 

“You _know_ why, Stiles,” Scott implores.

The sad thing is, Stiles does. He’s known all along.

***

On Friday, Allison comes home at five o’clock instead of her usual 8pm. She tosses her briefcase on the couch, startling Stiles, who had been in a heated Words with Friends battle with Erica.

“Um,” Stiles looks around frantically. After they spent the morning pretending to be Swedish tourists on the stupid Duck Tour, Scott slipped off to his body buddy’s house to prep for his next rotation. 

“Scott--” Stiles wonders if Allison would believe that Scott had been kidnapped.… No, the people of Boston would not thank him for Allison and her massive arsenal in any kind of ‘Taken’ situation. Maybe Scott just went for a walk around the block? No, Stiles would be in trouble for letting him go alone. Maybe if Stiles could convince Allison to go somewhere…. “Jellybeans!” he exclaims. They need to go get Scott some jellybeans. For pregnancy reasons.

Allison crosses her arms sternly. “Scott is at Brett’s house, probably studying, but I think I might want to hear where you’re going with this.”

Stiles gulps. For all she’s one of Stiles’s closest friends, Allison has always intimidated him. She was the most popular alpha in school: prom queen, class president, lacrosse captain (which as a female meant being twice as fast and three times as vicious). Stiles has no doubt that he never would have said a single word to her if she hadn’t borrowed Scott’s pen that fateful day. She has always made him feel inadequate, outclassed, and sometimes physically intimidated. Half the time she makes it worse by being so effortlessly humble about it. 

“I’m sorry, Allison, but he’s my brother and he begged me. His next rotation is Radiology. It’s just sitting around in a dark room looking at pictures of people’s insides. It won’t be too strenuous.”

Allison sighs. “I know that. Do you really think I would allow Scott to do anything unsafe? I just wanted to make you squirm.”

“Great. I suppose Scott is in on this, too?” Teaming up to prank Stiles has always been a favorite Scallison pastime.

“Oh, no. I haven’t talked to Scott. He’s just being naive if he thinks I didn’t lojack his car.” She looks considering for a moment. “And his phone. And his gym bag. And, I think, his favorite pair of sneakers.”

“Isn’t that, um, a little invasive?” Stiles wants to be indignant on Scott’s behalf, but he’d do the same thing if it meant protecting Derek. Hell, smelling pregnancy and lingering sickness on Scott, Stiles had been lucky his own instincts let Scott walk out the door. 

Allison shrugs. “I sell weapons, not teddy bears. It’s a basic precaution to keep my omega safe. But, enough about Scott. I came home early so you and I could have a night out. Alpha time.”

Allison changes into jeans and her old Cal shirt with the sleeves and sides cut off, revealing Calvin Klein's brash name tag around her bra band. Stiles wrinkles his nose at the douchey fratalpha style.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Allison laughs. “You’re wearing a Black Panther T-shirt dusted in nacho cheese. Besides, we’re on a mission.”

“A mission?”

“To find the diviest bar we can that still has live music.” She slings an arm around his waist and leads him out the door and towards the T-station. “It’ll be just like old times. You and me, two young alphas with not a care in the world. Remember when all we had to worry about was showing up for enough heat calls to keep ourselves in booze and microwave burritos?”

Stiles snorts. “Like you ever ate a microwave burrito. I’m onto you, Allison Argent. I saw all the salads and steaks you managed to sneak. I found _truffle butter_ once. The heat therapy bum life was never for you.”

“Yeah, but it was a great year, wasn’t it?” Allison asks, dreamily. They huddle together on the train, having let a pregnant omega take the last remaining seat.

“Yeah, it was.”

“Though, I could have done without constantly walking in on you knotted to my bro. What made us think we could get by with you guys sleeping in the living room?” Stiles teases. He pretended to be disgusted, of course, but Allison and Scott made a gorgeous pair. It was more the sound of their stupid loft bed creaking when he was trying to sleep that bothered him.

Allison’s eyes glaze over. She’s probably thinking about knotting Scott right now.

“Take a cold shower, you horndog. If I feel something pressing against my crotch it sure as shit had better be a handgun, so help me god.”

Allison smirks. “Kinky.” 

“I hate you,” he grumbles.

“No you don’t.” Except a part of him does, Stiles realizes all of a sudden. Despite her unwavering straightness, Allison has always been a flirt. And it’s not just her body that Allison doesn’t mind flaunting. It’s her perfect relationship with Scott. She’d just dangle it in front of him, an enticing picture of all the things a skinny, spastic, gay alpha would never have.

Stiles laughs to himself. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner. Allison is competitive, that much he knows, but Stiles always imagined himself above the empty alpha posturing. He’d actually managed to convince himself that he was unaffected, that he wasn’t _jealous_ of everything Scott and Allison had.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks.

“What?”

“When I asked you, that night in Golden Gate Park, why did you agree? You had a job waiting for you where you could obviously make bank and a great omega to start a home with. Not to mention your ama. I think she threatened my knot with a pencil sharpener for ‘tempting you into the bohemian lifestyle.’ Why in the hell would you live in that shithole of an apartment where you had no privacy and had to fuck other people for a living? I mean, _I_ had a degree in sexual social work and not a lot of options, but you could have gone straight to the good life.”

Allison smiles sadly, reaching out to cup Stiles’s cheek. “Why do you still refuse to believe that I love you?” Her eyes are searching and a tad exasperated. She’s painfully gorgeous. Stiles tries to look away, but she holds him in place with the confidence of an alpha who always gets what she wants. “Stiles, you’re my best friend and it was the weekend before graduation. I would have done anything you asked.”

Stiles is probably going to catch subway cholera from leaving his mouth gaping open like this. _He’s_ Allison’s best friend? He’s never even considered it. There’s a part of him that has always thought of Allison as just half of the giant amoeba that is Scallison. She was the jock he tolerated because she was surgically attached to his best friend’s face. She grew to be a friend in her own right, but still…. There was always the implicit understanding that if they ever broke up, Scott would win full custody of Stiles in the divorce.

But when he thought about it, he didn’t know if Allison had any other close friends. She was popular, always surrounded by a hoard of teammates, frat buddies, or business associates. But by college, the Scallison amoeba had gelled to the point that Stiles can't believe they made it to class, let alone met anyone new. And in high school, she mostly knotted around with Danny, but he's back in Beacon Hills. Lydia lives in Boston, but she only ever tolerated Allison for Stiles’s sake; he can't imagine that's changed.

“Well, um, thank you,” he mumbles. 

He thinks back to that night four years ago. He’d been riding a massive shockwave of jaegerbombs and weed. Scott was passed out half on top of both of them. The world was spinning and his jeans were wet with dew. A single star winked at him in the light polluted sky, telling him it was okay to ask for something, for once. He shouldn’t have, knowing how uncomfortable being a heat therapist would be for a mated alpha. He was weak.

He still is, without them.

The train jostles and Allison is forced to grab Stiles’s hip to steady them. “I would have taken more than a year with you in that shitty apartment,” she confesses into his collarbone. 

Stiles had always felt like the third wheel, an annoyance Scott tolerated out of brotherly love and Allison tolerated out of devotion to Scott. It never would have occurred to him that Allison wanted him around, let alone needed him. 

“We were happy,” she sighs.

“Yeah, but you were obviously meant for greater things. Look at you now. You’re in charge of million dollar contracts. You have _employees_.”

Allison sighs. “It was simpler then. You’re the lucky one. You get to work when you want, stay home and play videogames and wait for a vomit-worthy omega to need your knot. You don’t have to worry about disappointing anyone or not providing enough for your family."

Except he does worry. He worries all the damn time that he isn't enough because he isn't like Allison and all the other knotjammers of the world.

"Stiles, you're so lucky. You can settle down with another alpha so you never have to feel that itch when your omega is out in the world with nobody to protect him. You won't feel like a douchebag, because he’s a person with his own free will and should never be shut in a protective bubble like you wish.”

Stiles doesn’t want to be too judgmental when she’s opening up to him, but she sounds like an entitled brat. She has everything most alphas would kill for and she’s still not satisfied. She got to take a year's vacation in Stiles's life without facing unemployment or poverty. She has no idea what it's like to come home to a soulless, empty apartment and she sure as hell has no idea what it’s like to be gay. She's never once had to wonder if she's missing something by going against god and biology.

“You could have stayed,” he argues. “If you really wanted to live that lifestyle, I mean. You're his only child so I don't think Chris would have let your ama disown you.”

Allison sighs, hunching her shoulders. “I guess I should tell you now. You probably need to hear it now more than ever.”

“Hear what?”

She pauses, making room for the gravity of what she’s about to reveal. “We almost stayed in California.”

“What?” Stiles shrieks, loud enough to turn the attention of half their car. This is the first he’s ever heard of this. He understands why Allison wouldn’t have wanted him to know, but _really_? He can’t believe _Scott_ succeeded in keeping something that big from him.

“Scott got accepted to UCSF. We were going to stay, but then, Isaac happened.”

“Isaac? What does that rosy-cheeked bimbo have to do with it?” Stiles had never liked Isaac. The month he and his collection of scarves slept on their couch had been awful. It tested Stiles’s resolve not to use his intimate knowledge of police procedure for evil.

Allison pinches his elbow. “Don’t be such a knothead. Isaac’s had it rough. Don’t you know the clinic’s motto?”

Stiles shakes his head, though he remembers Allison quoting it to him when Isaac showed up at their door with a black eye and a duffle.

“We help those who can’t help themselves. You remember how it was when Isaac came in?”

“Yeah,” Stiles exhales. He had been the one to take the court order from Isaac’s shaking hand. He was the first one to hear about the fridge his apa kept him locked up in. The idea of it made Stiles feel so sick that he’d transferred the case to Allison.

“You were great with him.” As a bonded Alpha, there had never been very high demand for Allison. Isaac was her one unqualified success. “And you got him that job as a PA at Argent Arms. Why would that make you leave?”

Their train comes to another stop and Allison grabs his hand, yanking him out through the crowd and onto the street. She walks with as much confidence and purpose as she does everything. Even though Stiles is taller, he has trouble keeping up.

“I’m only telling you this as a cautionary tale, Stiles. We kept it from you because we didn’t want Isaac to lose all his friends.”

“Isaac and I aren’t friends,” Stiles scoffs. “Tragic backstory or no, that chick hates my guts.”

“Well, Isaac needs all the friends he can get,” Allison counters. 

“If that’s the case, then why didn’t you and Scott stay? You both got along with him.”

Allison stops. She’s a few paces ahead of him, the good old brick and baseball green facade of Fenway Park rising behind her. Her shoulders are tight, but she hunches over, trembling. “I cheated on Scott.”

Those are the last words Stiles would have ever expected to hear out of Allison’s mouth. She was the _perfect_ alpha. She was strong and loving and loyal. She’d been the one fratalpha who would carry a passed-out omega back to the omega dorms. She’d sit in the hallway of the student heat clinic doing her homework like it wasn’t a deadly fog of pheromones. Stiles had always trusted her with his best friend’s body and heart.

“What?! Him?!”

“I cheated on Scott with Isaac. That’s why we had to move. That’s why Isaac stopped working for my opa. Scott accepted his offer to Harvard. He said I could either follow him or I could stay in California and we’d be over.”

“But…” Scott and Allison had been bonded for six years before Isaac stumbled into the clinic. They were as solid as a couple could be.

Allison spins to face him. They’re just standing there in the middle of the rush hour crowd. “Isaac was heat deprived and none of you wanted him, so he was my main client. And then he started working as my opa’s PA and he was staying with us. I knew _Isaac_ might have some transference, but I thought my bond with Scott was unshakable. I thought he couldn't touch me.”

“It’s not like that with Derek!” Stiles immediately protests. 

Allison raises an eyebrow. _Really, Stilinski?_ that perfect eyebrow says. _That right there is a textbook definition of protesting too much_.

“Besides, I already agreed to take a break from him. I’m fine.”

“You don’t know that. Look, I liked Isaac as a person, but you know how much I love Scott. I just had Isaac for three court-mandated sessions while I was still with Scott. You've been seeing nobody but Derek for months."

"Not because of pheromones. I _like_ Derek. He gets me and I can help him."

“Yeah, but the stuff in the heat therapy textbooks isn’t just scare tactics, Stiles. You can’t think you’re above it, because, trust me, when you’re in the middle of it, up is down and wrong is right.”

"You keep acting like I'm some kind of Stockholm victim here. _Derek_ is the one who was abused. He's been perfect with me."

"I thought the same about Isaac. When he stayed with us I _know_ he’d stay up to listen to me and Scott have sex. He’d corner me at my opa’s place and demand to know every detail of my day. When they were alone, he'd rub the fact that I helped him with his heat in Scott's face and made him doubt why I still wanted to work as a therapist. Scott got jealous and we started fighting and I wouldn't believe that Isaac instigated it."

Stiles doesn't remember any of that. Had they hid it or had he just not noticed?

"In public," Allison continues, "he'd find every excuse to make it look like I was his alpha and … I wouldn’t discourage it. I’d flirt with him. I couldn’t keep my hands off him. We’d go running together and I’d pretend to help him stretch just to rub my sweat all over him. It felt good. I felt powerful and in control. In the back of my mind I knew it was wrong, but something made me just not care. And then, remember when you and Scott were on that camping trip?”

Stiles nods. That had been their first outing as a family after apa married Melissa. Scott had been ecstatic. “Isaac showed up at the door in the middle of his heat. He said he couldn't afford the clinic. Even though I knew opa paid him more than enough, I fucked him in the bed I shared with my omega. It seemed right at the time. I thought: why should Isaac have to pay for something from me when I'm his _friend_? I didn’t even think anything of it until Scott confronted me.”

“Allison, you know we’re modern alphas. We can’t just blame it all on biology. We have a choice. You chose to have sex with Isaac. That's what a jury would say.”

"That's true, but the thing is, when Scott and I got back from our summer in France, before we even left for Boston, I ran into Isaac in the park. I was going to run away. I was so scared I'd be right back in his arms the second I smelled him, but I felt nothing. He didn’t smell like anything, when before I could have devoured him.”

“What?”

“It was like I didn’t know him at all. He was just some chick I used to work with. The feelings that had been so powerful were just gone. He had an alpha. We chatted and he wished me luck in Boston and we haven't talked since." 

“So you’re saying that in five months, I could meet Derek and feel nothing? He could feel nothing for me?”

Allison nods sympathetically. 

Stiles has gone over and over all the rational, adult reasons why they need to part. He needs to give Derek time to heal and to decide whether he wants a serious relationship. He needs to not put all his emotional and financial eggs in the same Derek-shaped basket. And there’s the question of his license. 

But in all that good, rational thinking, he’d never once doubted that he loved Derek and that Derek cared for him in return. It never occurred to him that they might show up in five months and feel nothing for each other. Loving Derek has transformed Stiles's life. There's no way everything he feels could just be hormones. Could it?

“Oh, god.”

Allison takes in the gobsmacked look on Stiles's face and yanks him into the nearest bar.

“Look, Stiles, I’m sure that it’s going to be fine. Let’s go get wasted. Like old times?”

As the beer goggles get thicker and the night longer, Derek feels farther and farther away. With Allison’s arm around him and her horrible soprano stumbling along with the music, Stiles scents the flavor of his old life. He hadn't needed a white knight then. He'd had everything he needed. As Scott and Allison reminded him: he _still_ has what he needs.

When Scott starts his rotation, Stiles does the grocery shopping and cooks, the way he did when they lived together. He pesters Lydia at her lab at MIT and meets with the wedding planner on Scott’s behalf. In the evenings they play an epic weeklong game of Risk and force Scott to watch Star Wars. Stiles goes to bed with a smile on his face every single night. 

The New England spring starts to turn into balmy summer and Stiles huddles in a Dunkin’ Donuts by the river. He works on his business plan and watches the world go by. Alphas and omegas walk hand in hand like it’s the Seine and not the stupid, muddy Charles. Stiles wears sweatpants and a pink pair of Scott's old flipflops, not caring if he's attractive to either alphas or omegas. He eats clam chowder and drinks beer that hasn't been microbrewed and on the T, he heckles Yankees fans along with the hometown crowd.

Stiles can see why Scott and Allison like it here: there’s something down-to-earth and unabashedly blue collar about this place. There isn’t a vegan cupcake shop or overpriced consignment store in sight. The city is invitingly dinghy, winking with its muck as if to say, 'I am Boston. I am history. Put in a Pilates studio, make as many Starbucks as you dare, host a fashion show and I'll laugh in your face. I will be a factory town until the sea overflows.' 

Stiles lives in one of the coolest cities in the world and rarely leaves his apartment. When he first arrived, he had a violent love affair with the trendy gay bars of The Castro. He relished the freedom to walk down the street in a rainbow colored cape and a tutu. He loved the basement dives, the punk bands, the streets damp with fog. Now the tutu feels obligatory, the fog feels like a noose, just another suffocating mantle put on him by the world. He wants to believe that he still loves San Francisco, but maybe he is finally growing out of his Neverland. 

By the time his two-week visit is up, Stiles doesn’t want to go home.

***

Derek is pale when he meets Stiles at the airport. He’s wearing yoga pants and Stiles’s Captain America t-shirt under a frumpy hoodie with thumb-holes. He’s even using his glasses, which Stiles knows for a fact he doesn’t like doing in public. Of course, his smile when he sees Stiles more than makes up for the unkempt appearance.

Derek lifts Stiles half off the ground when he goes to kiss him. “I missed you,” he mumbles the second their lips part.

“I missed you too,” Stiles replies, though he finds that he misses Derek less than he would have thought when he left. He missed curling up on the couch with him, hearing his voice, his scent, and the sex, obviously. But with Scott and Allison around, he didn’t exactly _ache_ for Derek. Scott hadn't needed to enforce his texting embargo even once.

That doesn’t make the conversation they need to have any easier.

Stiles indulges himself, cuddling with Derek in the back seat while Ethan drives. He tells him about how Scott practiced diapering a teddy bear and about the mob of desperate, terrified students always huddled outside Lydia’s office. Derek laughs at Stiles’s jokes. He tells Stiles how he made Aiden search every garden store in the city for a replacement for Laura's favorite fichus, tragically lost after he vomited on it. Stiles kisses him until Ethan starts cursing. They're breathless with laughter, but they both know they're stalling. This is the calm before the storm.

When they get home, Stiles finds a glittering candlelit room. There are more plates and different kinds of forks on the table than he thought they had. Derek takes a seat and pulls his napkin from the silver serviette ring with a smooth, practiced hand.

They have a pleasant dinner of rib-eye steak and mussels, with a side of the fanciest-looking curly fries Stiles has ever seen. Stiles barely even tastes it, he's so nervous. He stuffs himself, eating both his portion and what Derek can't seem to stomach. It's a futile effort to delay the end of dinner and the conversation that inevitably follows.

“So,” Stiles blurts once they've stacked the dishes in the sink. He’s unable to finish the sentence.

"So we have some decisions to make," Derek says. He's standing straighter all of a sudden, looking shrewd. Maybe this is the corporate, alpha-passing Derek that everyone else sees.

Derek leads them to the couch and then grabs a manila folder seemingly out of thin air. He hands it to Stiles. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, eying it suspiciously.

“I had Marin put together a memo on your licensing situation,” Derek explains. “She had one of her associates look into past decisions of the board. The legal team is confident that they can't permanently forbid you from seeing me as condition of your license.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

“I think they’re more likely to just suspend your license and invite you to reapply once you’re no longer with me. Most heat therapists who stay with their former clients let their licenses lapse. They’re readmitted about half the time.”

“That’s less good.”

Derek frowns. “Marin doesn't think so. Not a lot of people bring legal representation to these hearings. She’s confident she can win the case in your favor.”

“But there’s a chance she can’t.”

“Yes, but if you don’t have confidence in her, I’ve had one of our investigators do a little digging on Deaton and--” Derek pulls out a suspiciously thick envelope.

“No. We aren’t going after Deaton.” Scott had put his foot down on that and Stiles can’t help but obey whenever Scott is in righteous hero mode. “I trust your business judgment, but Deaton has helped me and my friends so much. I can’t hurt him.” 

“He’s hurting you,” Derek snarls protectively. Stiles would be turned on any other time. 

"I did this to myself.” That’s another point Scott had been insistent on. “I don't care what you say; Deaton is off limits."

“Fine.” A report-cover bound document this time. “Then, if Marin can’t win, I’ve had one of the alphas in operations draw up an alternate business plan that puts your friend Erica as the face of the company but lets you keep some control. You said she’s a traditionally attractive alpha, which I think might be helpful for marketing. I have a few other investors we could partner with so it doesn’t look like you--”

Stiles stops the speech with a sloppy, enthusiastic kiss.

Derek looks flushed and happy when Stiles pulls back. His eyes are smiling and any signs of his previous sickness have faded into the candlelight. Stiles already feels the bittersweet aftertaste of this moment’s end.

“So I’m meeting with the fertility doctor tomorrow. She says I should be ready start the final round of medications before I can do the donation next heat,” Derek says shyly. “That means that the terms of the original contract are fulfilled, even if Marin already buried it. We're officially no longer patient and therapist.”

Stiles squirms. Maybe he should stay with Derek until after the donation. It’s supposed to be a brutal process and he doesn’t want Derek to go through it alone. Then again, the sooner they part, the sooner they can be together again. The sooner Stiles will know if this is real or not. Derek’s doing this all for his stupid, ungrateful sister. She can be the one to be there for him for a change. Maybe that’s what Derek needs, just like Stiles needed confirmation that Scott and Allison still love him.

“So, ” Derek continues, still smiling a love-stupid smile. “I can’t wait for you to meet my family. You’ll like Cora. She's a sarcastic little shit like you. And Laura will be so happy to see me settled. She’s in town now. You can drop by the office with me tomorrow to meet her if you want.” Stiles has seen Derek happy, but this is the first time he’s seen him excited. It's devastating. “Hey, you haven’t even seen my place yet. You’re going to hate the way it’s decorated. They decorator made me get even more throw pillows than here.” 

Derek pauses, waiting for the sarcastic retort that doesn’t come.

“You know,” he barrels on, talkative for once. “you don’t even know what I do for a living. Though I guess, you should be able to tell from the name…. Wait, did I even tell you my last name?” Derek laughs to himself. It’s a train wreck. A slow motion train wreck with spilling coal and explosions and people screaming. And blood, lots of blood, probably amputated limbs. Stiles just watches that relaxed, bemused smile on Derek’s face, too enraptured to move. “Sorry." Derek extends his hand. The handshake is as firm and practiced as the day they met. “Nice to meet you. I’m Derek H--”

“Don’t!” Stiles shouts. He squeezes Derek’s hand, refusing to release. “Don’t,” his voice breaks. He has to stop this. If Derek doesn’t want him in five months, then it’s better he not know his name. Better still, if he could unlearn every little detail he's gathered like precious treasures these past few months. If he doesn't know, he won’t be tempted to inflict himself on Derek.

“Stiles?” Derek looks dumbstruck, his eyes searching. Stiles hates himself for banishing the happy smile from his face.

“I love you so much, Derek, and I’m so grateful for all this, you don’t even know, but we need to take a break.”

Stiles feels physically sick watching Derek retreat back into himself. He’s the stoic, angry man who first walked into Stiles’s office all those months back. His glittering eyes and kind smile are gone and he hunches in on himself, like a kicked puppy still trying to decide if he deserves it. 

“No, no, Derek, this is not a rejection. It’s completely the opposite. I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life, but that’s why we have to spend some time apart. It’s only five months, baby.”

“You want to break the bond,” Derek states, his big bushy eyebrows tightening.

“ _Want_ is such a strong word. I want to be fully bonded to you and I want to marry you one day and have babies with you, if you’re willing. But if this is for the rest of our lives, we have to be sure.”

“I am sure,” Derek says petulantly. “If you’re not--”

“It’s not a matter of feeling sure. Bonding hormones are powerful. I mean, even before the bond, you hadn’t had a heat partner for years, which puts you borderline for heat deprivation syndrome. You were bound to develop an attachment to me." 

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"My friend had a heat deprived patient fall for her. He was absolutely convinced he was in love with her. He started stalking her even though she already had an omega."

"I'm not going to stalk you."

"And I'm not worried you will, though with those eyebrows, I'm convinced you could lurk gorgeously. My point is that my friend's stalker thought he was head over heels in love with her." He doesn't mention that Allison had felt the same. "But, after a few months’ separation, they just snapped out of it, like none of it ever happened.”

“That’s not me.” Derek crosses his arms and scowls.

“Derek, a few months ago, you didn’t want another alpha to even touch you, let alone to get mated and start popping out kids! You have to admit that’s, from a completely objective point of view, pretty damn suspicious.”

“I was stupid and crazy before. Even my therapist thinks so. I was _wrong_ then, Stiles. Now I know what I want. Why won’t you believe me?”

The vulnerable look on Derek’s face nearly makes Stiles relent, but he forges onward. He has to, for both their sakes. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s--”

“No? You don’t think I’m fucked up? You think I’m the _victim_ of some kind of abuse or this stupid syndrome you keep going on about. You think I’m weak. That I can’t decide for myself! That I’m not capable of loving you because what she--” he looks down at his hands. “I know I’m broken, Stiles, but I thought you loved me in spite of that.”

“I _do_! I don’t think you’re weak or broken or that you can’t make your own choices. Derek, what I feel isn’t in question. It’s just the circumstances. The hormones-- Who knows how you’ll feel once they wear off.”

“Well, if I’m not broken, like you say, then the same goes for you,” Derek argues.

“What?”

“If it’s just hormones, then they could be having the same effect on you.”

“No, it’s not the same--” Stiles _loves_ Derek. He knows it in every fiber of his being. It doesn’t matter what Allison says.

“Because you’re the alpha?”

“No! Because--” 

Then Stiles thinks about Heather. Stiles didn’t love her or know her well, but for a few months after her death, it felt like he could barely remember to breathe without her. He had panic attacks all the time. He nearly electrocuted himself in an unthinking daze. He'd even beaten a homeless alcoholic bloody for stumbling into her memorial.

“I guess I’m just as susceptible to the effects of bonding hormones as the next guy," Stiles admits. "I mean, a heat therapist working at a clinic would never see the same omega twice in a row. It ‘clears the air,’ so to speak.”

Instead of being reassured by Stiles’s similar circumstances, Derek’s eyes widen in panic. “So you could just be with me because I hired you away from the clinic?”

“No, Derek, it’s not just that! You’ve believed in me like nobody else ever has. And you’re so quick to want to help. You give without ever asking for anything in return. You’re a good person. And I like you! Who else am I going to watch my Giants with? And who else would take such good care of my little sister?”

Rather than take the compliments, Derek only looks more distraught. 

“Derek?”

Derek shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Derek. I’m trying to tell you why I love you, fuck the bonding hormones.”

“Stiles, you didn’t even like omegas, before. We all know that even gay alphas can get drawn into a heat frenzy. You want me to do those _things_ to you because you’re still gay, deep down.”

“Bisexual!” Stiles exclaims.

Derek shakes his head. “Objectively--” he says slowly. “You have as much reason to be completely under the influence of bonding hormones as I do.”

Stiles wants to argue. He knows that it isn’t just hormones and loneliness. Derek fits into his life in ways he couldn’t have predicted, but are nonetheless _right_. Even if he doesn’t feel this same animalistic pull to be with Derek, Stiles has no doubt that he will still want Derek in his life. 

But he doesn’t want to argue Derek out of doing what’s best for himself. “Fine.”

Derek had been hounding Stiles for confirmation, but he still looks wounded to have received it. 

“Look, we can spend five month apart. That’s not that long.”

“And if you don’t want to be with me after the bond is broken?” Derek asks.

“I _will_. Don’t worry about that.” Stiles is more concerned about whether _Derek_ will want to be with him.

“Okay, but if you don’t?”

“Look, the World Series starts in about five and a half months. I usually watch it at this sports bar in The Castro. If we still want to see each other, even just as friends, we’ll meet there for the first game. Then if _either_ one of us doesn’t want anything to do with the other, he just doesn’t show up. No questions asked, no guilt, and no future contact.”

“And if we still want to be together?”

Stiles grins. “Then we’ll start dating like a normal couple. You’ll show me your place and I’ll introduce you to my family. You’ll take me to those stupid business dinners of yours and we’ll have a proper talk about me giving you a bonding bite. It'll be even better then, when we know for sure that we want to spend our lives together.”

Derek takes a deep breath then sighs. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They pause for a moment, both staring out into space. Stiles's mind is in free-fall. What will he do for five months? Should he go back to Boston? Spend time in Beacon Hills? Should he date? Go back to the clinic? He hasn’t thought this through.

“Stiles?” Derek asks meekly. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I stay here tonight? I mean, I won’t come back and the place is yours for the rest of the year no matter what, but I--” He chokes up. “I’d just really like to stay here tonight.”

“Of course.”

Stiles is surprised that they don’t end up having sex. Derek pulls Stiles against his side and cuddles him close, with his face pressed to the pheromone glands on the side of his neck. Stiles tries to stay awake and hold onto every last minute with his omega, but he eventually drifts off. 

When he wakes up in the morning, Derek is gone.

Looking across the empty swath of rumpled sheets, where Derek has been suddenly plucked from his life, Stiles realizes: five months is a long damn time.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles runs home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is a fair amount of sexism, homophobia, and a little bit of racism/classism in this chapter (the last part is mostly from Jackson, unsurprisingly). This chapter also deals seriously with issues of bisexuality and homosexuality in a way that could be triggering.

The apartment is over-designed and generic. It’s ill-fitting and empty. None of Stiles’s ratty old stuff is there to make it home. Even after all these months, Stiles is still the only thing there that’s out of place, the one strange curio in the grotesquely modern habitat Derek had made for him.

It only takes Stiles a day to book the morning bus back to Beacon Hills. The plush fibers of his seat are suspiciously stiff and the recirculated air too dry, and yet, in all its grimy glory, this feels right. He can pretend he’s in college again -- worn backpack over his shoulder, phone and crumpled ticket resting in the front pocket of an oversized hoodie.

The air outside is still damp with the last remains of morning fog when the Greyhound lumbers into the station. The sun dances off puddles and glimmers in the windows of broken-down warehouses. But the air is fresh here, washed clear by mist and rain. Stiles is clearer too, away from the things Derek bought for him, his perfect life, his perfect scent. There exists beauty outside those cheekbones and that smile.

Stiles’s fellow passengers are met by friends and family in beat up cars or they rush to the line of dilapidated taxis. He’s alone with this morning, ambling past the abandoned mall, looming and faceless like the set of a post apocalyptic horror film. It was set to be torn down as part of a development plan that didn’t survive the recession. A few years ago, Stiles would have felt indignant on his hometown’s behalf. Now he understands that failure is as integral to progress as time itself.

Stiles wants to splash through the puddle in front of him, maybe scare a pigeon. But then his flimsy converse sneakers would be wet and his apa’s house is three miles away. His phone is dying, and nobody knows he’s coming. With Derek gone, nobody knows he left. He could die a post apocalyptic horror death and it would take ages for anyone to know he disappeared. 

The brief squeal of a police siren has him tripping over himself and slamming his stupid fucking bony knees into the murky puddle. It smells like engine oil.

“Still graceful as ever, I see,” a voice calls out from behind him. “Good to see you kid.” Tara watches Stiles flail around with her usual sage smugness. She doesn’t bother to get out of the cruiser.

She’s known him far too long to fall for his deflecting smile and defensive babbling. Except he’s not even sure if he’s spoken? Did he greet her? Tell her how good it is to see her? He’s not sure.

Tara sighs, always the put-upon alpha, indulging Stiles like any one of her children. “Hop in the back so I can tell Bob it was a perp who dripped mud all over his baby.” Stiles wishes Tara’s partner were here. As an omega, Bob always indulges Stiles.

“Tara--”

“Sorry, son. If your apa finds out I let you walk alone in shankville without at least threatening a loitering charge, then I can kiss my promotion goodbye. Now are you gonna get in the car or not?”

“Yes, Sir,” he replies. There’s no use in fighting. He’s not ready to face his family yet, but he’s not sure he’ll ever be. He tosses his backpack into the car and jumps in after it.

“Your apa’s at the station.”

“Would you mind dropping me at home.” He figures he can gentle the blow by getting Melissa alone first.

“Home visiting?” Tara asks.

“Yeah.”

She grins at him in the rear view mirror. “We’ve missed you, you know? I know you’re off being a hot young alpha in the big city, but what are we supposed to do without our little mascot, huh?”

Stiles has been so busy avoiding his apa’s new family that he’d forgotten about the cops who practically raised him. He owes it to them to keep in touch. He’s such a failure.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Stiles. We miss you, but we’re proud of you, too. Your apa tells me you finally got yourself a serious omega.”

Stiles winces, but he’s in the back where she can’t see. “He told you that?”

Tara laughs. “Oh, kid, he told the whole damn station. Your apa was _convinced_ you were gay and he’d never have any grandbabies from you.”

“Yeah. Figures.”

“But I told him to trust in your wiring. Don’t tell Annie, but I had a gay phase myself once, before I settled down. It’s easy to convince yourself that it doesn’t matter what hole you stick it in, love is love. And, hell, maybe it is. But love and bonding are two different things, and only an omega can do one of those.”

Stiles cringes. He has to remind himself that he loves Tara. She helped him with his homework when his apa was too busy. She taught him how to play catch. She’d even hired him when he needed spare cash for his Jeep, even though he’s the world’s shittiest babysitter. But he’s tired of this macho alpha song and dance. “So you’re saying you were in love with another alpha and yet you still don’t believe in bisexuality?”

Tara shrugs as Beacon Hills rolls slowly past. The police car smells like aging leather and cigarette smoke. “I believe that two alphas in love can be just as happy, if not happier than a bonded pair. I mean, at the end of the day, what parts you have doesn’t make you agree on who does the dishes or what school to send your kid to. The thing is, once you know what a bond feels like, you’re going to keep chasing the one person who can give you that and everything else too. You know what I’m saying.”

He does know, but he won't admit it. It feels wrong. He spent years shouting to everyone that would listen that he was gay and they just had to deal. He staked his entire identity on the idea that his love for another alpha was just as valid as an alpha-omega bond. Was he kidding himself? Were all those hate mongering assholes actually right? Were his past relationships worth less than some backwater alpha tricking a poor young omega into a bonding bite? 

“Whatever,” Stiles replies. He doesn't want to think about it right now. He just plain doesn't want to think. “Now, what’s going on with you? How’s Annie? The kids?”

Tara chuckles. “Good. It’s all good. TJ started kindergarten in the fall.”

“Already? Wow.”

“Goes by fast.”

“How’s Annie handling it?”

“She doesn’t know what to do with herself all alone every morning. She took up _knitting_.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose.

“My house is covered in toys and yarn. I’m tempted to get her pregnant again, but we really can’t afford a fourth on just my salary.”

“Didn’t Annie used to be a teacher?” Stiles asks. He remembers his shock when he found out the new freshman science teacher was dating his favorite deputy. “That would keep the yarn down.”

Tara shrugs. “Yeah, it’d help, but I couldn’t ask her to do that. When Robbie was born, we decided it was best if she stayed home. The kids should have someone to come home to. I’m not about to force my omega to work a full time job, deal with three kids, and a pregnancy on top of that. I think that’s why Robbie was a premie. Not that I’d tell Annie that. She doesn’t need more guilt.” 

“Oh, okay,” Stiles says. He wonders if Annie wouldn’t want to go back to work or if Tara couldn’t take over some of the childcare. Stiles’s oma worked and his apa was always the one who took care of Stiles the nights he wasn’t on swings. Then again, little hellion that he was, Stiles was only one child, not four. It’s not his place to question how Tara runs her family.

“So, tell me about this omega of yours! We’ve all been dying for news, but all your apa will say is that it’s a male omega. I bribed Ruth with a lollipop, but all she would say is that Derek bought her a stuffed wolf and smells nice.”

Stiles doesn’t want to say that he and Derek aren’t together now, maybe for good. He doesn’t need for all the people he looked up to as a kid to know he fucked up this badly with a client, probably even broke the law. They’re disappointed enough that he didn’t end up a cop like he’d always told them he would.

“Come on, Stiles. At least tell me: what does he do?”

“Um, he works for the family business.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“Boring corporate stuff.”

“Oh. He’s from money. Good job, Stiles.”

“I guess.”

“Tell me more. What does he like? How did you meet? Is it serious?”

Stiles winces. “You know, Tara, I haven’t had a chance to talk to my apa too much about Derek yet. I’d love to tell you, but it feels wrong not telling him first.”

Tara is a family alpha. She wouldn’t dare interfere with an alpha’s relationship with his alpha child. “Understood. I don’t mind if I hear it from your apa, but if I hear you spilled to one of the other deputies before me, you’re toast. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Looks like we’re here anyway. I’ll let your apa know.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

The house hasn’t changed much in the years since he left. The paint might be duller and the yard tidier since his apa cut his hand on the hedge trimmers and Melissa made him hire a gardening service. The neighborhood is subtly different. Other people have remodeled or let their properties fall into greater disrepair. It all seems _smaller_ somehow. His childhood fiefdom is just a small suburban street in a mountain town with no real claim to fame.

Melissa’s practical little Honda is missing from the driveway, so Stiles decides to climb in his old window like he used to. It’s a quick jump to grab onto the fence and perch himself on top. From there he scrambles up onto the garage roof, then leaps onto the old oak tree with the wide branch that runs close to his window. 

Of course, the damn thing is locked, because the room belongs to a toddler and not a teenager who forgets his keys. He’s rattling at the hinge when it opens suddenly to Melissa’s angry face.

“Stiles? What the hell are you doing here?”

It’s not the welcoming embrace he was expecting. He almost falls out of the tree because of it. 

“Oh my god!” Stiles shouts, gripping his branch tight like a treed bear. “You scared me.”

“ _I_ scared _you_?” she retorts. “You were breaking into my daughter’s second story room, you absolute dumbass!”

“Well, when you put it like that, I can see how it might be scary. Is that a baseball bat?”

Melissa rolls her eyes. 

“Climb down from there and I’ll let you in like an _adult_ , which I hear, based on age, you are.”

“It was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I thought you were gone. Your car isn’t here.”

“Radiator replacement. You have a _cell phone_ , Stiles. You could have let me or your apa know you were in town. What were you thinking?”

“I was--” Stiles wants to say that he was scared to. His life is falling apart, whether he was the instigator or not. He just wanted to come home, see his apa, stay in his own house in his boring hometown, and get the closest person he has to an oma to hold him and say it’s going to be all right. 

Except Melissa isn’t his oma. As a child she only tolerated his bad influence because he was Scott’s only friend. Now she tolerates him because he’s her husband’s son and her daughter’s brother. She cares about him -- the softening exasperation in her eyes says as much -- but it’s literally Melissa’s job to care about strangers. Even if she hugs him and tells him everything will be fine, a part of him can’t believe it.

“Nevermind,” Melissa says. “I don’t want to know. Just, get down from there. I’ll text your apa.”

“It’s easier if I just climb in the window.”

“You’re not climbing in the window.”

“Come on, Melissa. It’s safe. I did it all the time as a kid.”

“And how many broken bones did I treat you for as a kid?”

“None from climbing in _this_ window. This is my room. I do it every time I lock myself out.”

Melissa puts her hands on her hips. Her stern look is ridiculous in the sunny yellow bedroom, so different that Stiles had decorated it. “You didn’t lock yourself out because you don’t have a key. This isn’t your room and you don’t live here anymore, Stiles.” It hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest. “You need to knock and enter from the front like any other guest.”

Stiles nods. His hands shake as he slides back down the branch. If he weren’t practiced from sneaking out so many nights, he probably would end up with a broken bone or two. There’s a tight feeling in his ribcage that won’t go away. Maybe this is a panic attack. His streak-ending first panic attack in six years. God, he’s a mess. Melissa is right: he shouldn’t have come. He doesn’t belong _here_. Here is the past and Derek is the future and why isn’t he with his omega again?

Stiles wobbles out around the garage to the front door where Melissa is waiting for him, Ruth on her hip.

“‘Tiles!” Ruth shrieks, flapping her hands in his general direction. She practically falls out of Melissa’s grip reaching for him. At least somebody is excited Stiles is home.

Stiles picks his sister up and holds her close. He breathes in the smell of undifferentiated toddler, pretzels and baby powder. His nerves run too close to the surface and he’s gripping Ruth too tight. She makes a squawk of protest, but pets at his hair when he pulls back. 

“Unca?” she asks, trying to look around him.

“Sorry, Ruthie, Uncle Derek’s not here.”

“Why?”

“He’s in San Francisco.”

“Why?”

“He’s working.”

“Why?”

A toddler should not be provoking this tight feeling in Stiles’s chest. She doesn’t actually want an answer, he reminds himself.

“Sorry, Stiles, she’s in a phase,” Melissa says. “Ruth, Stiles is here. Derek has to work. Maybe if you’re good, Stiles can call him for you later.”

“Actually,” Stiles winces. “We’re not seeing each other right now.”

“Oh, honey!” Melissa exclaims. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“I told you that I bit him, right?”

“Yeah. Let me tell you, that has been a beast to keep from your apa.”

Melissa makes her way inside, with Stiles trailing behind her. The house is much neater than when Stiles left. It has to be with a toddler running around.

“Well, the doc who was supervising decided to go to the licensing board.”

Melissa gasps. Ruth sticks a finger in Stiles's ear. 

“Did you lose your license?”

“No. There hasn’t been a hearing yet and breaking the bond should be enough to let me keep it. That’s not even really that big a problem, according to Derek’s lawyers. The problem is that we’ve both been under the influence of hormones ever since we met. The only way to know if what he feels for me is real is if we break the bond and start fresh.”

“Stiles, let me tell you something." She's the emblematic omega: stern, compassionate, reluctant but determined. "There is no fresh start, honey. If you think breaking the bond erases your past, then you’re in for a big disappointment. You’ll never know if you would have fallen in love if you met under different circumstances. And neither can any other couple.”

“Why?” Ruth asks between chews on the string of Stiles’s hoodie.

Stiles ignores her. “You’re saying we should have stayed together?”

“No! If you lost your license, then you would have had no way to make money. You would be completely dependent on Derek. And I can tell you, from my experience with Scott’s apa, the last thing you want is to be financially trapped in a relationship.” 

Stiles is afraid to tell her that even with his license, Derek will probably still be the sole investor in his new company.

“Why?” Ruth repeats, looking between them and then nearly poking Stiles in the eye.

“Let the grownups talk, sweetheart,” Melissa chides.

Stiles demands, “Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that your mind isn’t separate from your body. It’s always going to be about hormones. Every romance is. Raf and I didn’t have anything in common. We wouldn’t even have been friends, let alone fallen in love without the bond. But I did love him and I thought he was a good man. As much as I love your apa, if Raf had never done what he did, I would have stayed with him and we would have been happy. Even now, I still love him. Our bond wasn’t enough to make me stay and yet without it, I never would have married him. The bond just is. It isn't _mind control_.”

”But if what you’re saying is true then I would have fallen for any patient who I gave a bond bite to,” he insists.

“No, you wouldn’t have. You have to trust yourself and you have to trust your omega.”

“But Derek is the only private patient I’ve ever had. I know I’m susceptible. What happened with Heather--”

“You loved Heather. And she loved you too.”

“No, it was just a friend helping a friend. We’d barely talked since Oma died--”

“No, Stiles. I never said anything because you weren't my son and it wasn't my place, but I have to set you straight. You’re the friend Heather trusted to share her first paired heat. That’s a kind of love. She died before you could find out if it could be more. That’s a tragedy you’re allowed to mourn, honey.”

Stiles feels the telltale tingle of tears prick the corner of his eyes. He wipes them away. He’d always thought his reaction to Heather’s death was wrong, a kind of trespass on the rules they’d made when they shared her heat. She’d made him promise not to get possessive or weird about it and he hadn’t honored that last promise he’d made to her. He wasn’t her alpha, so he didn’t earn it. But what if he was entitled to his grief? What if he was entitled to Derek’s love?

But that can’t be fair. “Okay, you’re right. I’m in love with Derek and no amount of time is going to change that. But what about him? He was fucking traumatized, Melissa. I just happened to be the therapist who took him out of it. It’s like, Transference 101.”

“Derek, Derek, Derek,” Ruth babbles. Stiles feels the same. He bounces her a little to try and distract her from the Derek question.

“What you did with the bonding bite was wrong,” Melissa says. “But you didn’t do it to trap him, did you?”

“No! It was an accident. The last thing I want is to trap Derek. That’s why he’s not here.”

“Then who are you to judge what makes Derek happy?”

“Um, because it’s not real happiness, just a codependent psychological hormonal mess.”

“Do you think you’re a bad alpha, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugs. He's good at heats and he'd never get all knotbrained and force someone. But he's not the kind of alpha that omegas go crazy over. He's also not very nice. “If you ever meet Derek, you’ll see he could do much, much better.”

“Oh, Sweetie, you aren’t a bad alpha and anyone would be lucky to have you. If you are the one he loves, you can’t just break his heart on the off chance that he could do better. If he’s as traumatized as you say, then he probably won’t even try.”

“That’s why this whole thing was a mistake! It’s why whatever we do will be an unhealthy relationship.” Stiles doesn’t know why he’s even arguing. There’s not a chance in hell he won’t show up in that bar in five months.

“So what if it is? So what if other people say that your relationship is unhealthy? If it makes you both happy and neither one of you is hurting the other, then who cares? Who cares if you made a mistake? We all make them. You can’t just quit if life isn’t perfect.”

Stiles just gapes. He wants to believe her so badly. And if she really were his oma, he would.

Ruth squirms and Stiles sees an incipient tantrum brewing in her scrunched eyes. 

“I was just about to put her down for a nap,” Melissa says, reaching out for her daughter. “Make yourself comfortable in the guest room. You know where everything is.”

Before Stiles can hand Ruth over, the screen door slams open, revealing Jackson Mahealani in all his bitchy glory. Even the baby cradled to Jackson’s chest can’t stop Stiles’s automatic scowl. He’s too emotionally vulnerable to deal with Jackson right now. Not when Melissa has him wondering if he was wrong to leave Derek.

He defaults to sarcastic. “I didn’t know Prada made diaper bags.”

Stiles doesn’t have to be able to see through Jackson’s stupid aviator glasses to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Come on, Stilinski, try to at least surprise me with your ignorance.”

“I’m not here to entertain you.”

“Then why are you here?” Jackson asks snidely, dropping the diaper bag on the kitchen table like he owns the place.

“This is my apa’s house, asshole. The better question is: what are _you_ \--”

“Jackson!” Melissa exclaims, rushing forward to kiss Jackson on the cheek. “Wow, sweetheart, you look great.” She takes in Jackson’s trim waist in tight black slacks and a simple white blouse. “Four months after Ruth, I still looked pregnant.”

“I’m sure you looked beautiful, Melissa.” 

Stiles scowls. Jackson is only ever nice when he wants something. Nobody other than Stiles seems to get that Jackson is the unholy spawn of Satan, Paris Hilton, and a literal sack of shit.

“How’s my baby girl? Are you ready to spend the day with Godoma?” Melissa opens her arms for Jackson’s squirming bundle. Jackson’s daughter giggles gleefully.

Melissa was the godoma? Stiles hadn’t known. Then again, Jackson had given birth when Stiles had just moved in with Derek and was avoiding telling anyone about it. He’d liked Danny’s triumphant Facebook post, but hadn’t talked to him since then. God, he’s an awful friend.

“She’s sleeping through the night, thank god,” Jackson says.

“You and Danny finally getting some rest then?”

Jackson’s smile tightens. He has always been a human Ken doll, but with those dull eyes, he could be a robot. “ _I’m_ finally getting sleep. Danny’s been to Atlanta five times since she was born.”

“He left you alone right after you gave birth?!” Stiles balks. “What a douchebag.”

“Stiles!” Melissa admonishes absently, but doesn’t launch into a stern lecture, meaning she agrees.

“Not every alpha aspires to sit around as a knot for hire, Stilinski,” Jackson spits. “My husband is actually capable of providing for me and our children. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”

But surely bonding time with his newborn is more important than yet another Porsche. “Don’t you have enough money?”

“What can I say? I have expensive tastes.” Jackson winks at Melissa even though she’s the one least likely to agree. “Besides, Danny got me an au pair. A German one, not some poor gold-digging Russian skank or a lazy Brazilian. _And_ this job is important. I can’t tell you the name, but let’s just say a major transportation company had a serious security breach.”

Stiles snorts. Danny works as a white hat cybersecurity expert. Yes, he has an important job, but he also works on a case-by-case consultation basis. The last time they met up, when Jackson was only three months along, Danny had sworn he’d take at least six months to spend time with his baby. What had changed?

But it’s hard to feel sorry for him when Jackson tries so hard to be a flaming douchebag. “Wow, Jackson, you managed to spill Delta airlines corporate secrets, act like a spoiled brat, and be racist, sexist, and classist all in one breath. Brava!”

“Okay, cool it you two,” Melissa admonishes. “Jackson, introduce Stiles to your daughter. I’m just going to put Ruth down for her nap, then I can take my favorite godbaby off your hands.”

When Stiles turns to look at him, Jackson’s normally pinched, snide features have relaxed into a warm smile. When looking at his daughter, Stiles can finally see why Jackson had been the most sought-after omega in school. He’s gorgeous.

“Stiles, this is Kau’i Konane Kea Mahealani, but you can call her Grace. Gracie, this is Stiles Stilinski. You can call him Dickface.”

“Hey! That poor baby has it bad enough with half your genes. You don’t have to inflict your personality on her to top it off.”

“My genes are perfection,” Jackson replies. “Just look at her.”

Stiles looks. Grace inherited Jackson’s bright blue eyes and full lips, but she has Danny’s dimples and his skin tone. She’s probably going to grow up to be the most beautiful kid Stiles has ever seen. Not that he’s going to say that to Jackson.

“You can hold her, if you want,” Jackson says. A smile is once again looming, so he adds, “Against my better judgment, obviously…but, at least you haven’t managed to kill your sister yet.”

Stiles makes grabby hands until Princess Grace Blah Blah Blah Mahealani is settled against his chest. He inhales her soft baby scent, feeling the weight of her in his arms. He could get used to this. He rocks her a little, subtly, remembering when Ruth was this age and he had been afraid to hold her. He'd foist her off on an always-eager Scott like a hot potato.

Stiles had never thought much about kids. He was gay, for one. And even though he once would have walked to Mordor and back just for Lydia’s phone number, he found that he preferred male alphas. Neither he nor his partner would be able to carry children even with an egg donation. 

That’s when he feels a wetness over his chest where Grace is mouthing at his shirt.

“What?”

Grace’s perfect little face scrunches up, seemingly in slow motion, before she belts out an eardrum-destroying shriek. 

“Damnit, Stilinski, what’d you do now?” Jackson grumbles, reaching out for his baby.

Even though she’s like a shrieking bomb of tears and snot, Stiles doesn’t want to let her go. 

Jackson snatches her away possessively, cooing, “Don’t worry, Princess, Opa is here. I won’t let Dickface harm a beautiful hair on your gorgeous head.”

After a moment of Grace’s uncontrolled crying, Jackson makes a surprised face, looking down at his chest.

“What?” Stiles asks.

Jackson thrusts the now bawling baby back into Stiles’s hands. “Hold her. _Carefully_ this time.”

And then he’s walking over to the couch and stripping off his shirt as he goes.

“What are you doing? What’s that?”

Jackson heaves a put-upon sigh as he unclasps the flap on one cup of what appears to be a bra. “What’s your defect?” he bitches. “It may be a hassle, but I’m _obviously_ not giving her formula! Babies need the nutrition from breast milk in order to grow.”

Stiles knew that there was a big push to get male omegas back to breastfeeding after the whole formula debacle.

He honestly never considered that they might wear bras. Jackson’s had been invisible beneath his shirt. 

Jackson’s breasts are small. They don’t poke out like a female’s, but are broad and flat, like a body builder's toned pecs with just the smallest layer of fat on top. His nipples are puffy, redder and rawer looking than Stiles’s. As a mostly only child whose friends hadn’t started procreating until Jackson, Stiles has never seen anyone other than Melissa nurse (and he’d always tried extra hard not to ogle his step-oma). It’s fascinating. 

Jackson holds his daughter carefully, pinching his nipple in order to help her. Stiles had read once that it's a lot harder for males to get their babies to latch. That's why formula had been the prescription for children born of male omegas when it came out. Of course that led to disproportionate health problems for the babies. And now, even a generation later, assholes like Aiden still believe that females are the ultimate omegas.

“Christ, Stilinski, you’re a fucking perv. I’m just feeding my daughter like a healthy, natural opa. It shouldn’t be taboo. Especially when you have the exact same equipment.”

“I’m not--” Stiles starts. Yes, he was staring, and maybe Jackson is more alluring smiling down at the embodied proof of his own fertility, but there’s nothing perverted about Stiles’s interest. It’s just curiosity, for the day when Stiles might be watching Derek do the same thing, assuming they get back together at all.

“So what _are_ you doing here?” Jackson asks. “Don’t you need to have some poor cripple hanging off your dick right now?”

Historically, the best way to deal with Jackson is to just ignore him until he goes away, but Stiles already feels so fucking raw. He’s not capable of that kind of restraint right now. 

“You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you and your Prada diaper bag and your stupid fucking husband who gets you an au pair instead of spending time with his perfect fucking daughter. You aren’t better than me, Jackson, and you don’t get to rub in my face the fact that I have to worry about money. Everything you didn't luck into, you earned on your back, just like me. Only instead of buying cars and purses, I just want to start a company so those 'cripples' don't have to fuck someone like me. And, you know what? It's a great idea that I came up with on my own, which is more than you can say for yourself. So just, for once, shut your fucking face."

Jackson goes tense. He looks down at Grace like she’s the one making accusations, not Stiles. His daughter is still suckling away, but she’s squirming in distress. 

He doesn’t apologize. He never does, but when he looks up, there’s a vulnerability that tells Stiles that at least some of the words hit home. The only other person who has ever been able to get that look out of Jackson is Lydia, back when she was using him as her slipknot.

“Do you need money, Stilinski?” Jackson asks slowly.

“No!” Stiles shouts on reflex.

Jackson raises his eyebrows.

“Not personally! But my company needs investors.”

“How much do you need?”

“What? Jackson, why are you even asking me that?” Stiles doesn’t know if he should remind Jackson that they’re not actually friends. They hate each other’s guts.

“Look, Danny makes more money than even I can spend. And I have my trust fund. So if you fuck up and lose a couple hundred thousand, it won’t matter much to us."

"A couple hundred thousand?"

Jackson waves the hand not holding Grace dismissively.

"My alpha says I should put my business degree to use and find some investment opportunities. As though I don’t have my hands full enough with his baby and the second one he wants to put in me as soon as my heats start up again. It would piss him off in all the right ways to know I was investing in you. So give me a business plan and a number and I’ll take it to our wealth manager.”

“ _Really_?” Stiles says. “You’d do that for me?” He’d never considered asking Jackson and Danny for money. Or Allison, for that matter. Even Lydia had said that her whole salary is basically play money. Lydia’s girlfriend is apparently independently wealthy and pays for all their necessities. 

“Not _for you_. Don’t you listen? To piss my alpha off. But if I’m going lose his money on something, it should at least go to someone I know. Now, if you’re done gaping like a demented fish, you can make yourself useful and get the burp cloth out of my bag. It’s the one with her name monogrammed on it.”

This moment is surreal. And not just because Jackson thinks his daughter needs to spit up onto the embroidery of her own name. It's surreal because Jackson has actually made Stiles feel better, rather than the usual sharp spike of animosity. If even the biggest douche canoe in Stiles’s life is willing to support him, then maybe he’s been selling all his loved ones short.

“Jackson?” He holds the towel in his hand like a wilting bouquet.

Jackson snaps at him. “Hand it over.”

“Thank you.”

Jackson rolls his eyes, but there’s a subtle blush on his cheeks. “Yeah, yeah, Stilinski, just me bailing out your sorry ass as usual. I expect free babysitting so I can enjoy myself at McCall’s wedding.”

"Done."

***

“What is this?” Stiles groans, staring at the spaghetti accusingly. There’s something wrong with the noodles. He just can’t put his finger on what. Were they mixed with cardboard? Or maybe just not cooked?

“That’s what I said,” Apa grumbles, giving his own pile a forlorn poke with his fork.

Melissa’s smile is a little too gleeful. “Sorry, sweetheart, you have no one to blame but yourself. This is a recipe from the heart-healthy cookbook you gave him for his birthday.”

“Oh, so you’re taking revenge, is that it?”

“I’m just making sure you understand the consequences of your actions.”

Stiles groans. “Not fair.”

“Speaking of not fair,” Apa interjects, “why haven’t I heard more about my son’s new omega? Would it kill you to call your old man every once and a while?”

Or Stiles’s apa could call him. Or visit. Beacon Hills is only a few hours away. They used to drive down at least twice a year for Giants games. Stiles’s apa hasn’t been down once since Ruth was born, not counting a single work-related conference.

Apa smiles expectantly, like he has some kind of right to Stiles’s personal life. What right could he have after he pretended that Stiles’s past partners were just transient detours on the path to heterosexuality? Stiles dated Louis for nine months and Apa always referred to him as just ‘your French friend.’

“Derek and I broke up,” Stiles replies, stabbing his mountain of gelifying spaghetti like a kid poking a hornet’s nest.

“Oh,” Apa says, but he rallies. “I’m sorry, son.” The sad part, Stiles thinks, is that his apa really does mean it. “What happened?”

Stiles shrugs.

Melissa looks like she might say something, but Stiles gives her a warning glare. His utter failure as a heat therapist and a human being really isn’t appropriate dinner table conversation. It’s definitely not something his apa needs to hear, ever. He’s got a weak heart and his new family to worry about. He doesn't need Stiles's problems on top of that.

Stiles wipes at his nose. It’s suddenly itchy. That’s why he can’t meet his apa’s eyes. “We just broke up. Can you leave it at that?”

The silence is expectant, but Apa sighs, giving up. “You’re a grown up alpha, so I guess we can. But you’re still my son and I want to see you happy. Any other prospects?”

Stiles shakes his head. He should say that he and Derek just put things on hold, that he hasn’t given up, not in the slightest. He should let his apa know that this happened only 36 hours ago and the wound is too fresh to really talk about it. He should just say ‘none of your fucking business’ like it’s high school and Apa is trying to talk about Heather yet again.

“Well, if it’s not too soon, now that you’re in town, your old friend Jared has been asking about you. I know that he always had a bit of a crush. The kid has grown into himself. You could give him a chance.” 

Stiles wonders if by ‘grown into himself’ his apa means ‘won’t throw up at the mere prospect of having a conversation with you.’ 

Apa continues, “And Deputy Greenberg’s cousin was around the station the other day. She studies mythology down at Berkeley, likes Star Wars and is an omega gamer youtube something. I think you two might hit it off.”

On any other day, Stiles might shrug and indulge his apa. He might say that Jared’s crush is too overwhelming for a normal relationship. He might promise to ask Greenberg about his cousin (without any intention of actually following through). On any other day he might be more concerned with making his apa happy than this molten pain burning a hole in his chest. But Stiles is just so tired of worrying about his apa, who has a new family to worry about him now.

“You know what?” he shouts, surprising himself and Ruth, who stops throwing mashed bananas from her high chair to stare at Stiles, wide-eyed. “I’m not doing this with you any more, Apa. I’m done. I’m done with your homophobic bullshit and I’m done with trying to be a good son.”

“Okay, son, message received. It’s too soon. Getting over an omega is tough. Hell, it took me years to--”

“Don’t you dare fucking say it!” Stiles clenches his napkin into a tight ball rather than wring his apa’s throat.

“Stiles?” Melissa reaches out a hand to restrain, but something in Stiles’s expression must stop her. She sighs, scooping Ruth up and heading upstairs. Stiles is glad to see her go. She doesn’t need to hear this.

Stiles’s voice breaks. He can’t even hold himself together long enough to lay it out for his apa. He’s a disgrace. “Don’t you dare say you got over Oma, because you didn’t. You may have moved on to the only other adult omega in your life, who was only there because Scott is _my_ best friend, by the way. You may have gotten a new family and a new life and you may have gotten rid of my room and changed the freakin’ locks, but you fucking aren’t over Oma. _I’m not_ and shame on you for--”

The sobs come out of nowhere. This feels like the crushing loneliness, the unfilled, unstable need of APES that leaves him achy and irritable and emotionally raw. Maybe it is. It doesn’t make sense after less than two days, but maybe he actually is withdrawing from Derek. Or maybe he's just reeling after clinging to Derek for so long, too broken to realize that he needed Derek as much as Derek needed him. 

“No.” His apa doesn’t need to shout. His voice is firm and there are tears in his eyes, just like those early days after Oma's death. He never lets them spill in front of Stiles, but he doesn't try to hide them either. 

“Stiles, I will always love your oma. I will not go a day in my life without thinking about her. I will always regret that she died young and in pain and that you had to deal with it. But Melissa is my omega and Ruth is my daughter. They aren’t a consolation prize. That doesn’t mean I love you or your oma any less.”

“Then why don’t you care?” Stiles asks. He knows it’s childish. This is a tantrum that should have happened when he was a rebellious teen whose apa was too busy and consumed by grief to be rebelled against. He should not be doing this at twenty-six.

“What the hell, Stiles? Of course I care. You think it doesn’t hurt me to see you hurting? You’re my son.”

Big fat tears dribble down Stiles’s cheeks and even though he keeps his sobs contained, there’s nothing he can do to stop them. He might as well be a squalling baby reaching out for apa. “Then why do you only pay attention now? When I have an omega? Why not come out and support me when we marched for marriage equality?”

“I was working, Stiles. I told you that.”

“Or you could have bothered to learn my ex’s names.”

“Which ones? You had a new boyfriend every five minutes!”

“So what? You learn the names of strangers for your job. They were your son’s boyfriends!”

“You weren’t serious with any of them. I didn’t need to know who was,” he makes an dirty gesture, “to my son!”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. Of course. Alpha parent doesn’t like alpha son taking it up the ass. Like it reflects badly on Mr. High and Mighty Sheriff--John Wayne, alpha extraordinaire--that his son likes getting fucked.

“I could have been,” Stiles grumbles.

“What?”

“I could have been serious. Maybe, if my apa had approved, I could have been serious.” He thinks about Avery and how he’d kissed Stiles sweetly the day they broke up. ‘I love you, Stiles, but you aren’t ready to love anyone.’ Stiles had let him go without even his usual knee-jerk protest. Stiles hasn’t thought about Avery in years, so maybe his ex was right.

“Bullshit, Stiles. My approval or lack thereof has never stopped you from doing anything you wanted to do. Even my title isn’t enough to stop you from keying the car of your best friend’s apa.”

“That was a crime of passion against a drunken asshole who hurt Scott and betrayed Melissa’s trust. It had nothing to do with your approval.”

“Yeah? Well, that drunken asshole had me under investigation. That’s why he was in town. You almost cost me my job!”

Plates clatter as Stiles pushes himself back from the table in shock. He remembers all the elaborate plans he had orchestrated on Scott’s behalf. Keying Rafael McCall’s car was only step one. Even after Tara dragged him into the Sheriff’s office as a suspect, Stiles had no intention of stopping. Only Scott begging him had kept him from framing Rafael with a corruption charge. “You never told me that.”

“You were a _kid_ , Stiles. I didn’t want to worry you.”

Stiles bristles. He was sixteen. Yes, ten years later he realizes how young that was, but he was just protecting his best friend. After losing his oma, he couldn’t afford for something bad to happen to Scott. He couldn’t even stand the idea of Scott moving to Washington to be with his apa.

Apa smiles. “And it worked. You got a firm warning and I requested some FBI help on a few troubling cases so that Agent McCall could spend more time in town trying to build a relationship with his son.”

Stiles can’t believe it. Because of him, McCall had been in town _longer_?

“But he was abusive! He pushed Scott and knocked him out!”

“I know,” Apa says. “But it was a one time accident and he got sober. We all kept an eye on Scott and Melissa. They were never in danger and that wasn’t your job to worry about anyway.”

“Maybe, if you had bothered to tell me any of that, I wouldn’t have even tried to key his car! I wasn’t unreasonable.” How the hell was Stiles supposed to protect his apa if he didn’t even tell Stiles what was going on?

“You were plenty unreasonable. What about when you snuck out to find a dead body in the woods when I specifically told you not to?”

“That was one time! And…that was permission, not approval.” Stiles is pretty sure he’s never asked for permission, including signing all his school permission slips on his apa’s behalf.

“Oh, so it’s okay for you to disrespect me at every turn, but I have to approve of you doing it?”

“No. You don’t have to approve of anything. I don’t expect you to approve of me sneaking out past curfew. But, fuck, Apa, a parent is supposed to approve of his son’s identity.”

Apa looks old all of a sudden, weary, and too human. This is John Wayne as the West is tamed and a superhighway comes knocking on his cabin door. “I didn’t know that you cared what I thought.”

“What? Of course I cared. You’re my apa!”

“Christ, Stiles.” Apa pinches the bridge of his nose, as though he can snatch his exasperation away. “You were always so independent. You never asked for help with your schoolwork. You dressed how you wanted and acted how you wanted. You played lacrosse even though you were terrible at it and didn’t care. You were never self-conscious and I was proud of you for that.”

“Really?” His apa has always praised him at the right times: graduation, first job, volunteer work, but this is different. Stiles was just being his stupid, spastic self. It had actually made Apa proud?

“Yes, really. Stiles, you were smart, even if you were mostly a smartass, and a good person. You even made your own money -- no, I’m still not sure I want to know how. By the time you were sixteen, I knew that if something happened to me, you would be okay. There wasn’t anything else I could do for you.”

“No,” Stiles protests. “No, no, no. I wouldn’t have been okay.” Stiles barely slept when his apa was on night shifts, worrying that something would happen and Stiles wouldn’t even be able to help. Not that he would be much more help during the day. How had Apa missed that Stiles barely functioned after Heather? And she was just a friend, not his only remaining parent.

“I’m not saying it would’ve been easy. I’m saying that you didn’t have anything else to learn from me. Hell, that body in the woods? I didn’t tell you back then, because the last thing I needed was you ‘helping’ yourself into harm’s way, but when you pointed out the relation to that old druid ritual, you actually helped us break the case. We never would have noticed the pattern of the body dumps around that old tree trunk.”

“Great. I helped solve a serial murder and you didn’t even tell me!” Stiles is going to hold this over his apa forever.

“You’re lucky I’m telling you now,” Apa grumbles.

Stiles wants to smile, but he can’t let his apa get him off track. “As great as that is, it doesn’t change the fact that you couldn’t stand that I was gay.”

“I couldn’t stand it? I never once told you I didn’t like gays.”

“You just ignored the whole thing! That’s so much better.”

“Stiles, you came out in the school parking lot by renting two white horses and trying to get Lydia Martin to reenact the last scene from the Princess Bride with you. I only found out because Melissa was snooping on Scott’s Facebook page. I’m pretty sure you didn’t care what anyone thought of you.”

Stiles remembers that being a little showy, but it wasn’t as though he was going to tell his apa about something like that.

“What approval did you need from me at that point?” Apa continues. “You didn’t even think to come out to me first.”

“I did! And you said ‘you’re not gay.’”

Stiles remembers that day vividly: how hard it was to say, how his apa had immediately dismissed him, how they both laughed it off as a joke. He remembers the days afterwards, not sleeping, worrying that he would be a disappointment, looking at all the pretty omegas in the halls and trying to convince himself that he only liked them. And then Heather, asking to share her heat with him, like the the universe delivering a nice big ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. Only it wasn’t. It was the universe kicking him in the knot instead. 

His apa can’t even fucking remember. “I never said that, Stiles!”

“You did. You were doing that Ecstasy raid at Jungle. Scott and Lydia and I were there. You asked me what I was doing and I said that we needed to have a conversation and _you_ told me we didn’t.”

Apa squints, trying to remember. “That? Son, I _saw_ your friend Jackson in the back seat of your Jeep. I thought you were sneaking out with to be with him and the gay club was an excuse.”

“Jackson?!” Stiles screeches, because that’s just gross. “You thought me and _Jackson_? Ew, Apa. No. Just, no. And also, I can’t believe you thought I could bag the most popular omega in school.”

Apa winces. “That’s why I thought he was hiding. I just wanted to focus on police business instead of explain to that father of his that I picked up his only omega child as part of a drug raid.”

“But, see, that’s exactly what I mean. Why is the most logical explanation that I was at a gay club sneaking around with an omega who hated my guts and not that I was gay and enjoying it with my friends?”

Apa sighs. His shoulders droop even farther. “Okay, Stiles, okay. Don’t hate me, son.”

“I can’t hate you.”

“You’re right. I’m a damned good cop and all the signs were there. I probably didn’t want to see them.”

Stiles deflates. He knows this is bullshit and he doesn’t deserve it. He knows his apa loves him and is proud of him, but it hurts all the same. “So you do have a problem with it.”

“No! I absolutely don’t! I just, I didn’t want that for my child.”

When Stiles tries to protest, Apa holds up his hand to silence him. “You can’t blame me! Being gay is hard and it’s not just the bullying. Before we moved to Beacon Hills, the things I saw as a cop-- I didn’t want it to be my son, beaten to death with the word fag scored into his chest with a knife, or dying a slow death from AIDS. Things are different now. I’ll give you that. But at the time, I couldn’t see a happy ending for you.”

“It’s not just that. It can’t be. Things _are_ different and you were still all over me getting an omega like you’re JJ Abrams and it’s franchise you can ruin.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay, but I loved your oma so much. Bonding her, giving her that bite, helping her through her heats and having you…those were the best experiences of my life. I wanted you to get to do the same things. I want to be able to actually give you advice, for once, to need me for something.”

“So you don’t think that an alpha/alpha relationship is ‘lesser than?’”

“I don’t. Especially if you’re wired that way. I think not having the bond makes it different.”

“Okay.” Stiles doesn’t believe him. How could he? Apa might say that they’re equal, but he has never given his relationships with alphas a fraction of the respect he has the heterosexual ones.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so sorry. I’m not perfect. I’m a stupid old man who went off the rails and drank and let his son take responsibility when his wife died.” 

They don’t talk about that. They never talk about that, because Apa’s wife had died and it was justified. Stiles would have drank himself numb too, if he weren’t ten years old and didn’t think whiskey tasted like rotting swamp moss. They don’t talk about it because Stiles could have asked him to stop or harassed him about it the way he did his eating habits. But he didn’t. He was too scared. He didn’t have the right. He still doesn’t have the right.

Stiles makes a choked sound. The drinking doesn’t matter anymore, Melissa has made sure of that. 

“I wasn’t paying enough attention to you when you needed me and I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s not about attention, Apa. It’s, just--” Stiles knows they’re broken, just as he knows that he had a part in it. He didn’t sit down and come out to his apa. He was trying so hard to protect him, like he’d promised his oma, that maybe he ended up pushing him away. They’re broken, but Stiles doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know what he wants from his apa, so why fight? “You were fine.”

Apa sighs. “No I wasn’t. Stiles, you wouldn’t have any doubt that I love you and am proud of you and accept you if I was fine.”

“You were stressed out. You were under investigation. Oma died. I know things were tight with the mortgage crisis.”

“That’s no excuse. I made a lot of mistakes. I’m still making them. Just know that I love and accept you, no matter what.”

The silence settles. Apa eyes Stiles shyly, awaiting his judgment with his neck bared for the chopping block. A part of Stiles wants to tell him that it’s too little, too late. Stiles is already fucked up beyond repair. But that would be admitting defeat and Stiles is too stubborn for that.

“I love you, too,” he finally admits.

Apa rounds the table, pulling Stiles into his arms like when he was young and only the scent of family would soothe his panic attacks. Stiles finds himself crying, collapsing into his Apa’s arms. All these years he’s been cracking under the strain of being strong, feeling like he needed to take care of his apa, not wanting to be a burden. He'd been so scared that if he asked his apa for help then he'd be told that he should be an adult by now, that his apa has another family to focus on. He'd never thought that he was pushing his apa away. He’d never let himself long for this, the unwavering support that he thought he’d never have.

The loneliness is almost more pressing now that his apa’s arms are around him. He hadn’t felt safe before, he realizes. He hadn’t felt safe enough to let himself feel his own grief. Derek is gone and Stiles is unemployed and alone. 

“I left him, Apa. I love him so much, but I had to,” Stiles moans. It’s silly, because there’s a good chance Derek will come back to him five months from now. Derek had vowed that he would. He’s acting like Derek’s dead when he has no reason to believe that they won’t be together. He feels like a fool.

“It’s okay,” Apa says, squeezing the back of Stiles’s neck and holding him close. “It’s okay, it’s okay, just let it out. Apa’s here.”

Stiles is taking great gasping breaths so that he can sob, but he isn’t panicking. His head is suddenly clear. It doesn’t matter that he might get Derek back five months from now. Derek has been a distraction, a way to soothe the hurt of his isolation, but Derek won’t banish the void that has been consuming him, maybe since his oma’s death, definitely since Heather’s.

“It’ll be alright,” Apa says, and for the first time, Stiles believes it.

His thoughts are racing. Has he taken his Adderall? He can’t remember. 

But he knows what he has to do. He’ll make it all better. He’ll stop pushing people away. He’ll spend time with his sister and with his family. He’ll reconnect with his old friends from the clinic and spend more time Skyping Scott and Allison. He’ll take Jackson’s money and maybe Deaton’s. He’ll submit himself to the licensing board and do whatever training he clearly needs to be a better heat therapist. He’ll start being humble. He’ll work out, get rid of the Doritos belly, start going to therapy himself again. He’ll get his company started and in five months he’ll be on the road to being the kind of alpha Derek deserves.

And if Derek doesn’t want him, he won’t be devastated. He’ll find another alpha or omega and he’ll give them a fair shot instead of pushing them away. He’ll be a better man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters who are canonically from Beacon Hills but are not from Beacon Hills in this AU and when/where Stiles met them:  
> -Derek - during fic, SF  
> -Laura - during fic (future chapter), SF  
> -Isaac - year after college, SF  
> -Deaton - year after college, SF  
> -Cora - post-college, Boston  
> -Morrell - during fic, SF  
> -Aiden/Ethan - during fic, SF  
> -Erica - college, Berkeley  
> -Boyd - college, Berkeley  
> -Liam - during fic (future chapter), SF  
> -Brett - during fic (future chapter), Boston  
> -Parrish - during fic (future chapter), ?  
> -Braeden - during fic (future chapter), Boston  
> -Kira - recently before start of fic, SF/Boston  
> -Malia (not a Hale) - during fic (future chapter), SF
> 
> People not in this fic, but in the prequel who are also not from Beacon Hills:  
> -Jennifer  
> -Deucalion  
> -Peter  
> -Kali  
> -Paige  
> -Kate (not an Argent)
> 
> Stiles, Jackson, Lydia, Scott, Allison, Danny, Tara and all their families are from Beacon Hills.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles celebrates the launch of his clinic with his new co-workers. Then it's the first day of the World Series and the moment of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Laisserais for the beta! 
> 
> WARNING: There is some very brief and harmless Stalia in this chapter. There's also some slight dubcon/under the influence stuff (but not sex) and quite a bit of biphobia/uncomfortable discussion of queer issues.
> 
> Malia is not a Hale in this 'verse.

Erica is wearing hip-hugging slacks and a sleek leather vest that shows off her toned shoulders. Her hair is gelled up in a sleek ponytail and her lips are painted ruby red. Stiles feels frumpy in his Aquaman T-shirt and flannel. Not ashamed, just frumpy.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Stiles complains, though he’s smiling. He can’t help but smile. Today is a good day.

So much has changed in the past four months. He subleased Derek's apartment and moved out to his own place. He apologized to Kira and groveled until Deaton would help with his ethics hearing. Between the money Derek paid him, Jackson, Allison, and Deaton’s doctor friends, he’s raised enough capital to get started. Peer2Peer Therapy won’t have a license to operate for a few months. Even then, they might not be able to take all insurance plans for years, but Stiles is optimistic. Deaton is right: why wait for permission when they can be the vanguard of a new health care movement?

Erica puts her arm around Stiles and gives him a wet smack on the cheek. There was a time when being half buried in her cleavage would have made his knot twitch. But he’s mature now. An adult. An entrepreneur with an omega he hopes to settle down with. 

It doesn’t feel as righteous as he had always imagined.

“Hey, what better way to celebrate our new office space than a night on the town with our staff?” Erica jokes as she heads towards the bar with Kira to pick up the third round. Or is it the fourth? Stiles can’t remember.

“I can think of a lot of better ways,” Liam, one of the newly hired therapists, chimes in. “For example: cash, cake, drinks at a restaurant, a baseball game. All of those would have been more appropriate than a gay club.” He looks good in the skintight black Lycra, but he practically hums with discomfort. As the only straight alpha in the group, he must feel left out. 

“Come on, man,” the other new hire, Mason, complains. “We’ve spent the past two weeks learning techniques for sex with omegas. It’s my turn to get my knot wet.”

“We aren’t open, yet. Mine’s been as bone dry as yours,” Liam insists. 

“You could always fuck each other,” Isaac says with a shrug. He’s wearing a fishnet top, neon yellow nipple pasties and a matching scarf. Stiles won’t admit it out loud, but he actually looks good. Then again, with the pheromones Isaac's floating, Stiles can’t be sure of his eyes.

“I’d rather fuck you, gorgeous,” Liam replies. He and Isaac have been ostentatiously flirting since day one. Stiles would be concerned if he weren't certain that nothing will come of it. Isaac learned not to screw his co-workers the hard way.

But then Liam leans a little closer and Stiles catches his pupils dilating. He struggled with the particular pheromone mix they had been training with today. Isaac still reeks of the cloying over-ripe scent of it.

Stiles motions for Mason to escort Liam off onto the dance floor. The last thing he needs is for Isaac to drive away another person in Stiles's life. They can work on Liam’s control on Monday.

“Hey, I thought I told everyone to take a shower. It's standard procedure after pheromone training,” Stiles snaps.

Isaac shrugs. “It’s a gay bar. Who cares?”

“You know that even alphas who identify as gay can feel the effects of an omega in heat, right? You could make things really uncomfortable for a lot of people.” Not only that, but the training pheromones are a regulated substance. Stiles obtained them under the clinic’s provisional license. If something happens, they could be shut down before they start. Luckily, Isaac didn’t apply the pheromones directly. He was just in the vicinity of the training.

Isaac looms, with his arms crossed over his chest and a defiant tilt of his head. “Let them be uncomfortable.”

“God, Isaac, could you be more of a bitch?” Stiles complains. “As a gay alpha, let me tell you, the last thing we want is to be pheromone-roofied into a sexual situation with an omega.” 

Isaac gives him a knowing look. “Come on, Stilinski. You had no problem being ‘roofied’ by that gorgeous omega client of yours. The one who made you quite the clinic to give ‘private therapy.’”

Isaac slinks up to Stiles. He bats his long eyelashes flirtatiously and slides a hand up Stiles’s arm. The shy boy social services had dragged in is long gone; Isaac stands tall. Stiles just isn't sure that's a good thing. “You bat for our team now. Are you sure you wouldn’t want it?”

Stiles shoves him off. Pheromones and baby-faced good looks or no, Isaac is still _Isaac_. “Fuck off. Gross!”

Isaac doesn’t seem bothered by the rejection. He grabs two shots off the rack Kira arrives with and tosses them both back. 

“What’s gross?” Erica demands. She's holding the kitschiest tropical drink Stiles has ever seen. She shoves it into his hands with a wink.

“This menace, rubbing the medical pheromones all over me like a fucking boob.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Stiles was just telling me how it would be so hard for him, as a gay alpha, to get even a whiff of omega pheromones. God forbid it made him do something he didn’t 'want' to.”

Erica raises her eyebrows. “Like shack up with an omega? Yeah, Stiles, it would be _so_ terrible for you. You could get swept off your feet by a gorgeous guy who pays for everything. Whisked away to a huge apartment in the city. Woe is me!” She snorts. “I think you lost the right to play the gay card a while back.”

“Hey, just because I happen to have fallen in love with an omega doesn’t mean I’m not still gay!”

“Doesn’t that make you bisexual?” Kira asks. It’s so innocent that Stiles is almost willing to humor her and move on. Judging by her scowl, Erica isn't.

“Yes, Kira, it does,” Erica replies, arms crossed over her chest. “It makes him bisexual, which he could have told us. At any point. Like back when we were swearing that we didn’t want omegas and babies. What happened to the Stiles that didn't need the white picket fence to be satisfied?”

“I still feel that way!” Stiles protests, but Erica and Isaac exchange a skeptical look. Only Kira is nodding at him encouragingly.

“Yeah right.” Erica pokes him in the chest. “You’ve been pining for that omega like a little lost puppy.” She wobbles tipsily in her tall boots. This is probably just another drunken argument in a friendship that's largely a string of drunken arguments stitched together with life in between.

“I haven’t been pining!"

Isaac snorts. “Yeah right.”

"Erica, I love Derek, but I’m still me. I still believe in the same things. Even if I end up with Derek, I won’t care any less about gay rights!”

Erica shoves at him so hard that Stiles barely keeps upright. She's always been a violent drunk. “No, you won’t. You’re going to marry that omega. You'll settle down in a cute little house in Berkeley and pop out your 3.2 kids. You'll pretend that you didn’t meet him as his heat therapist. Then you'll pretend that you _aren’t_ even a heat therapist. At first it'll be to protect his 'reputation,' but then you'll start to see the shame in it. You'll get so deep in your straight little world that you'll wonder if everything before was just youthful experimentation. Five years from now, when you're schmoozing with the other parents from your kid's $20,000-a-year Kindergarten, you’ll pretend this business is just a ‘good investment.’ You'll be ashamed to admit that you got into it because you actually _cared_. We’ll see how ‘gay’ you feel then.”

Isaac grabs Kira’s hand to drag her out of the crossfire. Stiles doesn’t blame him. Not when Erica has that look on her face.

“Erica,” Stiles tries to speak slowly. “Whoever I date has nothing to do with you. You are a hot, successful gay alpha. You're completely satisfied with Boyd and your life together. I’m fucking jealous of that, okay? So what if the person I found happens to be an omega? I still believe in the movement. I’m still _queer_.”

“Or maybe you were just waiting around for your body find its heterosexuality.”

“Come on, Erica. I’ve sucked so much knot that I can almost unhinge my jaw. You know that’s not true.”

“Yeah, I know you like knot, Stiles, but you were never truly _with us._ ”

“What? Dude, I’ve been with you every fucking step of the way.” Stiles feels betrayed. No, worse than betrayed: he’s livid. With Erica and Boyd and the rest of the Queer Alpha Alliance he’d felt accepted for the first time in his life. How dare she trivialize what had literally meant the world to him?

“Sure. Whatever.”

“Fuck you, Erica. I cared about the cause and I cared about _you_. Remember when we locked ourselves in the Dean’s Office to protest the suppressant policy? Or when you came out to your family and I waited out in the car just in case they decided to kick you out? Even though I knew they wouldn’t? Or when you cried on me for like a week straight when you broke up with whatsherface? Goddamnit, Erica, you and I met at the White Horse during Pride! Doesn’t get much gayer than that.”

“It was college, Stiles. People experiment. People change. I’m not mad at you.”

“Well, you sound mad,” Stiles grumbles. She'd shoved him, after all.

“I’m not. It’s just that everything makes sense now.”

“What? No it doesn’t!” Stiles protests on reflex.

“It does. You like alphas and you like getting fucked. Plus you’re loud about whatever injustice you feel is happening. You’re loud about everything. But there’s always been a distance about you. You don’t let people get close.”

“What? What distance? Erica, c’mon. What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You’ve never given any of the alphas you’ve dated a chance." She bites her lip. "It's like being gay was never _enough_ for you. It wasn't a _real relationship_ so you didn't have to take it seriously. You felt victimized by the system, but it was almost an excuse not to give it your all."

"Fuck off. _Asshole_." Stiles shoves her back now. His blood is pumping with the power of kitschy umbrella-riddled pineapple rum. "You can't blame my disastrous dating history on some kind of internalized homophobia. Sometimes things just don't work out."

"What about Louis?"

"What about him?" 

"Louis was head over heels for you. He was going to stay in America _for you_. You treated him like the punchline of a horrible the-French-always-surrender-and-smoke-too-much joke."

"Well, Louis and I had other problems." Stiles doesn't mention how he caught Louis sucking off creepy Matt from his photography class. It had been too humiliating then and it's just as humiliating now.

"What about Caitlin, then?"

"Caitlin didn't love me. She just wanted a regular hook up."

"You keep telling yourself that, Stiles. The point is: you can barely be bothered to return Caitlin's texts and then this Derek guy squirrels you away in a pheromone haze. You quit your job. You don’t see your friends for months.” She looks around to make sure Liam and Mason are gone before whispering, “You almost lost your license, like some knotbrained idiot.”

Stiles doesn’t know why Erica has to do this now, when things are going so well. Can’t she just drop it? The bond will be broken in a month. The clinic will be up and running. Stiles will be as financially independent from Derek as he can be. Then they can finally be together as equals. It doesn’t matter what Erica thinks. Stiles won’t have her sour the taste of basically winning at life.

“Fuck you, dude. If I didn’t love Derek, I’d be out prowling for a big strong alpha to bend me over right this second.”

Erica gets that mischievous glint in her eye that Stiles knows can only mean trouble. In fact, it means he’s already neck deep and didn’t even know it. “Great! Then you’ll love my friend, Malia.”

“What? Who?”

“Oh, Malia, she’s great. Tall, strong, super dominant bisexual alpha. I mean, she’s not male, but she’s just your type. I invited her to join us.”

“Erica, I love Derek, I’m not going to--”

Erica rolls her eyes. “You two are separated for five months. You don’t even know if he’s going to want you when it’s over. You didn’t make any promises.”

“No, but I’m not just going to--”

“Think about it, Stiles. You’re supposed to be cleansing your palate, right? Isn’t he worried that you’re really gay?”

Stiles frowns. Derek had seemed incredibly concerned about that.

“So you just talk to Malia. Dance with her. Maybe hook up. Remember what being with another alpha is like. It’s _for_ Derek, if you think about it. I’m sure he’d rather you make sure it’s him that you want. And, hey, if Derek doesn’t want you or if you and Malia hit it off, then you have another option. That’s why you cut financial ties, right? To give yourself options.”

Stiles squints at Erica. It’s all surprisingly logical for her. The fruity drink he’d just downed was stronger than he’d realized. His thoughts feel sluggish, distant. He doesn’t want Erica to be right, but he can’t come up with any reason why she isn't. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” a female voice says. There’s a hand on Stiles’s chin and then he’s suddenly facing one of the most sexy alphas he’s ever seen. She’s slim and athletic, with long brown/blond hair and dark, serious eyes. She smells like pure, undistilled alpha. More than a few omegas are staring at her as she leans in and whispers in Stiles’s ear. “I’m in the mood to dance. Join me.”

She spins on ridiculous cowboy boots, sauntering through the crowd without a backward look. 

“Hi, Malia!” Erica shouts after her.

Malia just waves at Erica over her shoulder.

Stiles stares.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles, pick your chin up off the floor and go after her!” Erica commands. “She’s not going to be alone out there for long.”

Stiles feels helpless but to obey. She had smelled so _good_ , better than the sweet musk of heat-fueled omega, even. He loves Derek, but maybe Erica is right. Maybe he does need to cleanse his palate, just to be sure.

Malia smirks when Stiles finds her on the dance floor. “Looks like you found me, Bambi,” she says over the loud thrum of the bass.

“Bambi?”

“Like nobody has ever called you that before. Not with those big brown eyes.” She winks. Nobody actually has, but Stiles isn't stupid enough to disagree.

Stiles can feel the music in his bones. With Malia’s hands on his hips and her gaze focused on only him, he forgoes his usual flailing. He lets her move him, gyrating in time with her. She teases at friction but still keeps them too in sync to become obscene.

Stiles has been celibate these past few months. He knows that, considering his issues, there’s no way Derek will rush into sex. It seems unfair for Stiles to sleep with other people when Derek won’t be. But this is just dancing and Malia feels so good against him. The serious, almost feral look in her eyes, the way she has already named him prey to her predator, the fact that it’s been so long since someone looked at him like that…it’s dizzying.

With a claw-like hand digging into his ass, she pulls him up her thigh. She lets him grind down on her as she practically growls into his neck. “I want to fuck you so bad, Bambi,” she whispers. “I want to wreck that ass.”

And then she’s spinning him around, keeping him wrapped in her arms as she rubs her knot against his back. Her nails dig into Stiles’s sides and he groans at how good it hurts.

She mouths at his neck, but the sensation is both sharp and distant. All his blood is rushing south to fill his cock. Her hand creeps down. She teases at the front of his pants without giving him any pressure to grind against. It’s maddening. He thrusts his hips out, but she won’t relent.

“Bad boy,” she whispers in his ear. It’s strangely matter-of-fact, but Stiles likes that.

Stiles whimpers. He’s forgotten everything - the club, his colleagues, the business, Derek. The world is he and Malia and the beat, her hands and knot and scent and the rush it gives him.

“Come on, Bambi. I think you need another drink,” Malia says, leaving Stiles bereft and confused as she moves away from him. Only after he’s processed her words does he nod.

It’s awkward, standing in line at the long, crowded dancefloor bar. Malia elbowed them space, but even then, the bartenders are overworked and slow. They could have gone back to the lounge area with the rest of his friends. But Malia must prefer it here, even if she is drumming her fingers impatiently.

“So, what do you do?” Stiles shouts over the music.

She crosses her arms over her chest, looking annoyed. “Construction,” she replies.

“Oh.” Stiles has never actually met a construction worker before. Despite being a cop’s kid, the circles he runs in are not very blue collar. “That’s nice,” he babbles. “It must be good. I mean, constructing things. I always wonder how they do that. You must work a lot of nights. Um, is that fun? Do you--”

“It’s a job,” she replies with a shrug. 

“I’m a heat therapist,” Stiles tries. “I just started my own company, actually. I don’t know if Erica has told you--”

Malia sighs. “Look, Bambi, your friend said you were looking for some no strings attached fun. You wanted a rebound fuck with an alpha, I thought. You’re cute, but I’m not looking for long term. So let’s cut the smalltalk, forget the drink, and head back to my place. I promise I’ll make you forget all about the omega who broke your heart." She winks. "At least for the night.”

She stares at him, expectant and impatient. 

“He didn’t break my heart! We could still--”

“I _don’t care_. Are you in or are you out? You don’t have to force yourself, if you’re not interested. I’ll just head back to the dancefloor and find another twink or an omega to take your place.”

Stiles objects to the twink label, strongly, but he just nods. It isn’t worth it. It's hard to reject her, with that strong body pressed against him by the crowd. He speaks slowly, “I think you should do that.”

She nods, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. Her gaze is pitying. “Take care of yourself, Bambi.” She slides her hands down his chest then around to his ass before pulling his phone out of his back pocket. 

Stiles hesitates because he doesn’t think he’ll ever need the temptation of an alpha like Malia once he’s got Derek for good. But then she licks her lips, like he’s a delicious snack and she still can’t wait to take a bite. He unlocks his phone, utterly compliant.

“When you’re ready to get over him, here’s my number. I’m happy to help.”

She takes her time returning the phone to his back pocket, diving in close for a punishing kiss. Stiles is so dumbfounded by the power of it that he barely has time to respond before she turns on her heel and saunters off into the crowd.

Stiles pays for the two shots of tequila they’d ordered and downs them both. He must be crazy, he thinks, recalling the way her denim shorts rode up to reveal powerful thighs. Erica is right: she’s exactly his type. But even with no strings, he doesn’t want to get pounded by a stranger who can’t even be bothered to make small talk. 

He’s exhausted, he realizes. He’s tired of meeting new people and the sickening hope that they might change his life. He’s tired of the clubs and the drinking and the endless performance of “being fun.” He’s tired of the conquests, even when they’re as easy as he and Malia could be. Finally, he’s tired of learning a new body and how it fits with his, even if before Derek he wasn’t exactly a player. 

The club is smoky. It smells of stale pheromones and the lacquer of spilled drinks on the floor grabs at his shoes. He wants to be somewhere other than here. He used to roll his eyes at Scott and Allison and their epic, co-dependent love, but now he realizes how wrong he was. They’re probably home right now, sitting on the couch watching a sappy romcom. Allison is rubbing Scott’s belly and cooing to him. They're sure in themselves and each other. That isn’t boring. It’s not the ideal for everyone, but it’s admirable. He wants it and he wants it now.

Stiles pushes his way out through the dance floor. Malia has Kira in her clutches now, mouthing at her slim omega neck the same way she had been at Stiles’s. She raises her gaze to him and winks. 

Stiles stumbles a little as the tequila hits. It’s not because he’s stunned that Malia rebounded so easily. 

Mason is in the corner, dancing with a burley alpha, a classic bear. Stiles shakes his head. “That’s unexpected,” he mutters to himself. He’d thought that Mason would go after someone petite and athletic like Liam, considering the way he looks at his new best friend. 

Stiles looks around for the rest of the group and finds Isaac sandwiched between two alphas in a filthy grind. One of them has his hand down his ridiculously tight pants. Stiles smirks at Isaac’s slutty antics until he spots who he's is dancing with. Liam tries desperately to turn Isaac around, drawing his lips down to--

Stiles sees red.

He marches up to the three of them. He's not sure if he pushes the cute brunette that had been at Isaac’s front, but she scurries away. Liam looks wild, like he might be gearing up to throw a punch, but Stiles doesn’t care. He grabs Isaac by the hand and yanks him out the door, already ordering an Uber as he goes.

“What the fuck, Stilinski?” Isaac pouts. It’s probably a pout that sways legions of alphas, but Stiles is too pissed off to give a shit. 

“What the fuck?! What the fuck, Isaac? Haven’t you fucking learned your lesson? After what happened with Allison, you’re willing to risk your job and your remaining friends? I had you back, even though you didn’t fucking deserve it after what you did. I’m the _only_ one who has you back.”

Isaac shrugs. He’s shivering a little in the cold air in his skimpy outfit. Stiles offers him his flannel, more to avoid nasty looks from passersby than out of chivalry.

“You could have most any alpha you want, Isaac. Why does it have to be someone you work with? You were wearing the pheromones from today. This is a company event…in really, really bad taste, I now realize. He could sue us. Fuck, Isaac, I just went through hell with the licensing board. Now you can’t keep it in your pants and you’re going to ruin me!”

Isaac finally appears the slightest bit contrite. He hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t think.”

“No shit, you didn’t.” Stiles should probably accept the apology, but he’d rather rub it in. He has never liked Isaac and he was right not to. Stiles hated how he cozied up to Allison, even when he hadn’t known what went down between them. And he hated how insistent Scott had been on making Isaac feel included. Well, fuck that. Fuck pity and all the people who think Stiles should feel it.

Stiles never would have asked Isaac to come work with him if Allison hadn’t made him feel all guilty. He would fire him now. Except the Clinic's board is already furious at him for poaching their staff. They probably wouldn’t take Isaac back and then what would Allison and Scott say?

“I just don’t get it,” Stiles adds. “Is it some kind of sick thrill for you? Do you just find the most inconvenient person in your life to fall for? Does this have something to do with being abused?”

Stiles grimaces as soon as he says it, but Isaac just rolls his eyes at Stiles’s tactlessness. “No. I don’t have a thing for ruining my life. Do you think I liked it when Allison left? Or when I betrayed Scott, the first omega friend I ever had?” Isaac is drunk, too. That must be why there are tears running down his face. “I’m a fuck up, okay? I fell for the wrong person and…I’m not into Liam. That was just a stupid choice. I’ll clear it up and we’ll be professionals from now on.”

“You’re sure? How do you know? You and Allison had a professional relationship once, too. What’s to stop you from falling for him and going all stalker crazy until he moves to another fucking coast just to get away from you?” 

Isaac winces.

“Because I love _her_!” Isaac shouts. “Everyone else is just--” he gestures vaguely. 

“Bullshit!” Stiles roars. “You got high on pheromones and decided that infatuation justified forcing her to cheat.” Stiles fucking hates people who claim love as a get out of jail card for their bad behavior. He's worked so hard to not be that guy with the licensing board. It doesn't matter Isaac's reasons. It can't happen again.

“Fuck you, Stiles. You and Derek did the same thing and you call that love. Maybe Allison wants to call it a hormone-fueled moment of weakness, but I _know_ we’re not just slaves to our biology. I loved her. I still _love_ her.”

“No, but that’s not-- She said. She said you two met in the park and you both felt nothing. It was all just hormones.”

Isaac sighs. “I lied. It’s a thing people do sometimes.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But why lie? Why not fight for her if you still had feelings?”

“I love her and it’s what she needed to hear. She was never going to choose me. Her omega has been with her since high school. He’s going to be a doctor. I’m just a broken piece of shit who can barely keep it together as a receptionist. But Allison is a good person. She would have felt _responsible_. I mean, they’re starting a family now. What good would knowing that I still love her do?”

Stiles doesn’t know the answer to that. His head is spinning and not just from the tequila. If Isaac never stopped loving Allison, does that mean there’s no palate cleansing? Does it mean that he’ll be in love with Derek for the rest of his life without knowing if it’s real?

He collapses down onto a low stone wall, with Isaac folding his long limbs in next to him. 

“I thought it was just hormones. Allison said--”

“Allison believes what she has to in order to keep her relationship together. She had other patients. I’m the only one she wanted to keep around outside the clinic. Maybe it was pity or some misplaced protective instinct. But there was something real there. What does it matter if it’s all hormones? We don’t fall in love in separate pheromone-proof rooms, writing to each other over the internet. She loved me, just not enough.”

Stiles gulps. “So you think that me and Derek--”

“I think that if you and Derek love each other and want to be together, that’s all that matters.”

Stiles stares at him for a long time, noticing for the first time the subtle lines of pain on his otherwise smooth features. How long had Isaac been hurting and Stiles was too wrapped up in his own bullshit to see? 

“I guess you’re not fired, then,” he says.

***

Stiles trudges up the stairs to the new incarnation of his shoebox studio. He salutes the fairy lights with green army men toys hanging off them. They were his 19th birthday gift from Scott. They frame his shelf full of graphic novels and old textbooks. The last paperwork yet to migrate to the office covers his bed, along with an old bag of Doritos. The cleaning service is what he misses most about Derek's place (other than Derek himself).

He wonders if Derek would come here. Would he lay himself out on this lumpy mattress and look Stiles in the eye and say he loves him? Would he let the fairy lights and the old thrift store lamp cast a glow on his perfect skin? Would he smile as Stiles pushes him down against these cheap sheets and goes down on him?

Before Stiles knows it, he’s shoving his papers aside. He collapses onto the bed with a hand down his pants. It’s a strange comfort to feel his familiar palm. He jerks himself dry, too drunk and lazy to find the lube that’s probably lost under the bed. 

It comes in flashes of memory, still vibrant and complex. Derek is above him, sinking down onto his straining cock with short, sharp thrusts. He bites his lip in concentration. His eyes are half glazed over, dazed. At first Stiles doesn’t know where to put his hands, but they find their way to Derek’s hips. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Or maybe he thinks it. 

He jerks himself faster, but it's too tight and dry. He slows down as Derek does. Sweat builds at Derek's temples. When he looks down at Stiles, it’s tender, compassionate, maybe even painful. His muscled shoulders look suddenly narrow. Those moss-green eyes seem to weep without a drop of moisture slipping from them. 

_This is real,_ Stiles thinks. It’s not. Derek isn’t here. But it had been so achingly, painfully real. Nobody had ever bothered to lay themselves bare for Stiles like that. He’d fucked so many people. Most had been beyond grateful for an easy, competent heat. Maybe there were even a few who imagined themselves in love. But this is different. It _was_ different.

Stiles reaches for Derek’s cock and Derek gasps. He stops his frantic movement and collapses down against Stiles. Stiles jerks him, thrusting his own cock into Derek’s tightness. Derek’s eyes slip closed and he sighs through his orgasm, relieved, swaying.

Stiles moans his name.

When Derek opens his eyes again, it's a contented smile. He seems surprised by his own pleasure.

It’s a good memory, but it’s not enough to cut through the softening buzz of the alcohol. Stiles shoves his jeans down and circles his hole. Without lube he won’t find penetration satisfying. Instead, he teases along the rim with his fingertips. He presses down on his taint to stimulate the prostate from the outside. 

Derek is grinning now, accustomed to being on top. He hikes Stiles’s legs up around his chest as he undulates his hips against him. The kiss is stinging, possessive. Derek’s large hands cup Stiles’s jaw and his eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Fuck me,” Stiles demands. “Goddamn it, Derek, put it in already.”

Derek ignores him, nipping at his neck, at his collarbone. He makes his way down Stiles’s body until he reaches his straining cock. Instead of licking it, Derek just buries his whole face in Stiles’s groin. He rubs his beard against Stiles's leaking cock, almost nuzzling it. 

“What the hell?” Stiles complains. “You fucker!”

Derek grabs his hips, pinning him down as he noses at Stiles’s hole.

“Oh god!” Stiles shouts. 

He shouts it now. 

He’s alone, frantically jerking himself. Nobody will hear him.

Derek has the audacity to bite at him a little. The soft scrape of teeth makes Stiles squirm and writhe in pleasure. 

Stiles knows how this story goes. Derek will tease him for another five minutes before finally shoving in. He’ll fuck Stiles until he’s screaming for his gorgeous omega top. He'll beg to come as Derek smirks. Then Derek will kiss him senseless until their orgasms take them both by surprise.

But as his hand gets more frantic, that’s not what Stiles sees. He’s back to Derek’s face. His slow, surprised smile, the sadness in his eyes as he just opens and opens, gives and gives. In the end, it's the vulnerability that gets him. It's the trust.

Stiles falls asleep covered in his own cum, pants down around his ankles.

***

Stiles immediately realizes his mistake when he steps in the crowded sports bar. On an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, this place would be mostly empty. But today is the first day of the World Series. With the Giants in the race, Stiles enters to a wash of excited game day chatter.

He also made the mistake of dressing head to toe in Giants regalia. Two equally bedecked fans find him at the bar, eager to praise their team’s chances. Stiles excuses himself and finds a secluded booth towards the back. He's early so he orders a plate of nachos that he hardly touches. He's too nervous. It's a Herculean challenge to keep his eyes on the flatscreen instead of the door. 

Derek will show up. He has to show up. Stiles has done everything right. He distanced himself financially, stayed sexually faithful, sorted out his licensing problem. He made sure that his interest in Derek really is out of love, not just hormones. It is true love, and that's supposed to prevail. Isn't it?

The random microbrew he ordered burns with bitterness. The worn leather of the booth seat clings and squeaks as he fidgets. There are only minutes before he can finally start the rest of his life. In five minutes, he will have arrived at...something. Even if Derek doesn’t show, Stiles will have taken a huge step onto the ledge of adulthood. There’s no going back to his shit-paying job and his one-night stands. There’s no going back to the guy who had no idea what love was. He knows he has responsibilities now. He is responsible for his own future and he’s ready to take it, with Derek or otherwise.

He notices movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone has taken the seat opposite him.

On the TV Eric Karros is giving a riveting breakdown of the pitching lineups. Stiles takes one last look at his excited, affable smile, before he sucks in a deep breath and looks across the booth.

Marin Morell raises one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow at him.

“Oh my god!” Stiles jumps half out of his seat. “What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Derek? Did something happen to him? Is he okay? He’s not dead, is he? You’re not here to tell me he died from some horrible complication of the egg extraction process. Are you? I didn’t even think about that. I should’ve researched it. I should’ve gone with him. I--”

Morell stays stoic until he trails off. “Mr. Hale is alive.”

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles sighs. Except, if he’s alive, then why isn’t he here? “He’s not sick, is he? I mean, it’s not that he _can’t_ be here?”

Morell shakes her head. Her straight, dark hair shimmers with the movement, like an oil slick. “No, Mr. Hale is able bodied enough to have attended your rendezvous. He has elected not to and has sent me in my official capacity as his representative.”

“So he’s not coming?” Stiles realizes that he must sound like an idiot, a lost boy in the vain search of someone to tell him everything will be alright. He needs Morell to tell him that his dreams aren’t crumbling. He’d convinced himself that he would be fine if Derek didn’t show. That was Derek’s choice, a choice that Stiles wants desperately for him to have.

It’s just…tears are streaming down his face. His throat is tight and the room feels small. It isn’t a panic attack. He won’t let it be. He almost chokes in attempt to force down the sob, but it slips out anyway. “It wore off,” he says to himself. “Without the bond, he doesn’t want to be with me.” 

Derek had been so prickly at first. He had enjoyed Stiles’s company well enough, but it had been a Stockholm Syndrome situation. They were forced to find some common ground. And they had become friends. Stiles still believes that they were friends. But he can understand, if friends are all they are, why Derek might not find it worth it to keep seeing each other. There's too much baggage between them. That’s fair. It’s Derek’s right.

Stiles is gasping, but Morell doesn’t move to comfort him. She stares, almost without blinking. Maybe this happens to her all the time. Maybe as lawyer to a corporate mogul, Derek has her preside over the breaking of dreams daily.

“He doesn’t love me,” Stiles asserts, because of course he doesn’t. Of course an omega as beautiful and rich and successful as Derek wouldn’t spare Stiles a glance. If he weren’t coerced by a medical system that still can’t keep up with biology, Stiles never would have met Derek at all.

“I’m not here to speak to my client’s reasoning,” Morrell states simply. 

“But you must know it.” Stiles begs. 

She doesn’t move much, other than a slight twitch of her lip. She must know. Even if she's not the type to play confidant, she’s been Derek’s lawyer for years. She sees him every day. She knows.

“Does he hate me?” Stiles blubbers. He’s pathetic, but he can’t stand the idea of it. Maybe they _were_ friends but Derek hates him now for taking advantage. Maybe his attorney is here suing Stiles…not that he has much to sue for other than what Derek gave him. 

Morell softens just a bit, from untouchable robot into mere cyborg. Pity is not a good look on her. “Again, I cannot speak to my client’s precise intent. However, I do not believe his actions stem from malice.”

“Okay, but he sent his fucking attorney to break up with me. How is that _not_ malice?”

Morell wrinkles her nose in distaste at the mere idea. “Derek did not send me here to ‘break up’ with you, Mr. Stilinski. You were already apart and he has chosen not to reconcile, as you promised was an option. He sent me to obtain your signature.”

She opens a fancy leather briefcase to pull out a document.

Stiles reads out loud. “In consideration for $150,000 to use at his own discretion, Mr. Genim Russell Stilinski (Surrogate) agrees to be bound by the terms of the previous agreement, entitled ‘Private Heat Surrogacy Agreement between Genim R. Stilinski and Patient DBH.’ This agreement supersedes any perceived breaches or amendments to.... Wait, are you trying to pay me off just to keep the terms of the first contract?” Why would Derek do that?

Morell nods. “Both you and my client breached various terms of the agreement. For legal reasons it’s neater to offer you something in exchange for seeing the remaining terms enforced.”

Stiles doesn’t quite understand, but he keeps reading. “Furthermore, despite having obtained additional information relevant to the identity of DBH over the course of their interaction, Surrogate agrees to pursue no contact with DBH, under any circumstance. Knowing contact or taking steps towards contact will constitute irreparable harm.... So Derek doesn’t want to see me and he’s going to offer me $150,000 so that he never has to see me again?”

Stiles crumples the cheap cardboard beer coaster in his hand. He would have stayed out of Derek’s life if he had simply not showed up. Doesn’t Derek give him at least that much credit? They’d gone five and a half months without even a text. Stiles isn’t some kind of psycho stalker like Derek’s ex. He thought he’d earned Derek’s trust in that at least. 

Stiles grabs the heavy, well-crafted pen from Morell’s hand and signs with a flourish. 

“Don’t you want to read the rest?” she asks.

“I don’t care. Derek doesn’t want to see me and he won’t. Is there anything else I need to know?” He knows he’s being stubborn. He shouldn’t sign without reading, but he’s crying to Derek’s lawyer in the middle of a sports bar on the first day of the World Series. A bunch of Giants fans are shouting in the background, oblivious to his embarrassing meltdown. He just wants it over with.

“Ethically, I would advise you to have your attorney review any documents before signing,” Morrell replies. 

“Okay, but if I just don’t try to contact Derek in any way … that’s what you’re asking me to do.”

“That, in essence, is what we are asking for. The money will be transferred to your account within a week.”

“Great.” He stands, dropping more than enough to cover his check on the table. He can afford it if he's getting $150,000 to do what he'd do anyway. “Enjoy the game. Finish the nachos, too, if you want.” He's too distraught to say anything else. It's easier to make false pleasantries with Morrell than face the fact that this is the last time they'll see each other. He's already seen Derek for the last time.

“Stiles,” she calls as he walks away. His heart leaps with hope, even though he just signed the literal death of the great love of his life. 

“Derek, he--” she starts.

He clenches his fists. He doesn’t know if he can take anything else from Derek's unflappable mouthpiece.

Morell's dark eyes are troubled. “Derek has his reasons for this, but please believe me when I say they aren’t cruel. He cares for you a great deal and…the money is an apology. I know it feels like a slap to the face, but it’s his way of trying to make things up to you.”

That, more than anything, feels like a punch to the gut. If Derek truly believed that this was for Stiles's own good, he should have the knot to come here and tell Stiles that himself.

“You’re right,” he manages, righteous. “It _is_ a slap to the face. You can tell him that. You can also tell him that I still love him. Don't let him just pay off his guilt.”

Morell nods with her same serious poise. She looks as though she wants to say something more, but Stiles turns and flees. His eyes are burning with tears. 

***

Stiles stares at his computer screen. After crying to Scott and two cartons of Chunky Monkey, he’s finally rational again.

Derek cares about him. He wouldn’t do this without a reason. Derek is all kinds of fucked up, but Morell said that he still cares. It isn’t cruel, so it must be practical.

Yeah, Stiles signed the contract, but it wouldn’t hurt to _know_ the reason Derek paid him off. Maybe Derek’s in some kind of trouble and he needs Stiles to stay out of it. Maybe he’s a mafia boss or something, not a corporate scion. Or maybe he never actually divorced that terrifying wife of his. Maybe the murderer is now out of prison and he has to protect Stiles. It could be any number of things, really. Derek might not be creative enough to find a way around it, but maybe Stiles could.

Even without a lifetime as the sheriff’s son and three semesters as a criminal justice major, Stiles knows a hundred ways to figure out Derek’s identity.

He could break into the clinic’s records. He could reverse lookup his phone number. He could figure out which Fortune 1000 company he works for. He could look up Marin Morrell. He could cross reference the 2004 Northwestern undergraduates in English and the USC MBA alumni rolls. He could trace the ownership of the apartment. He could look through credit receipts at any of the many places he’s been with Derek. And if he's feeling really creepy, he could falsify a lab request for any number of DNA samples Derek left behind.

But, Stiles ponders with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, Derek deserves better. He made Stiles sign because he didn’t trust him not to be a creepy stalker. And if Stiles looks him up, he’ll be yet another person to break Derek’s trust. He still loves Derek too much to do that. 

Isaac is right: if he really loves Derek, he’ll let him go.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Allison get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely beta laisserais for reminding me to be inspired and beating me into submission. Without her, this chapter wouldn't be possible.

Scott looks absolutely gorgeous in a calf-length cream-colored gown.  The fabric cuts low under his toned shoulders, delicate beneath Allison’s careful bonding mark.  

He’s glowing, even though this far into his pregnancy he should be sweaty and exhausted.  Scott is carrying Dahlia completely to the front.  As he walks down the aisle towards Stiles, bouquet in hand, he barely looks pregnant.  What the people in the aisles are seeing is a different story.  

The general consensus must be that the bride will go into labor any minute now.  That gives the room a strangely watchful energy.  Despite protests, Scott had refused to budge from a Thanksgiving Day wedding.  He claims he didn’t want to inconvenience people who had already saved the date.  Stiles suspects he just didn’t want to have to pick a different color scheme.

Stiles doesn’t even wait for his apa to get done walking Scott to the altar.  He rushes down the steps to help the bride up the second they get close.  Scott indulges him with a fond smile.  

When Scott is finally settled in front of the priest with his hands held in Allison’s, he stretches his back a little, prompting a few gasps.  Kira reaches out a hand to try to steady him and ends up dropping her bouquet.  Because she’s Kira, she bangs her head against Brett’s when they both try to pick it up.

Allison ignores them, tears already shining in her eyes.  The dimples are on full display.  She’s wearing a floor length black dress with the high alpha collar.  It flares at her hips with a dizzying combination of tulle and chiffon.  Scott figured he could dress Allison up to distract from his belly, but Stiles doubts it’s working.  Nothing is as eye-catching to an alpha as a breeding omega.

Ruth fidgets at Stiles’s feet, confused at why she’s still standing up here.  Stiles pats his pocket again to make sure the rings she delivered to him are still there.  He’s frazzled enough that he worries he could lose them.  Even Scott had seemed concerned.  Stiles doesn't blame him, considering how much of a disaster of a best alpha he’s been these past few months.  

Too many nights sleeping at the office, too many gin and tonics, and too much time sitting alone in his tiny apartment, staring at Malia’s number and wondering why he just won’t call her.  He’s legally obligated to never see Derek again, so what would it matter?  He has no faith and nobody to stay faithful to.

But this is Scott and Allison’s happy day and Stiles isn’t going to fuck it up with his troubles.  He’d made a pact with himself that he was going to be a good friend to them.  And he will be.  

He feels bad enough that he hasn’t made it back to Boston until now.  In his defense, Scott’s pregnancy had delayed the bachelor/bachelorette parties.  With getting the clinic up and running, he hasn’t even been much help with the wedding preparations.  Thankfully, Allison’s ama paid top dollar for a wedding planner that could conquer even Scott’s cluelessness.

The wizened old priest clears his throat.  “Welcome, friends and family, beloved guests of two great lineages.  We are gathered here today to tie this alpha and this omega, already fully bonded in heart and body, in the holiest of unions.  With God as our witness, we unite two families.  We weave together the strands of their sacred inheritance for the glory of Christ, the Church, and our heavenly father.”

The priest pulls out an intricately carved wooden trunk labeled with the Argent crest.  The velvet lined box contains the formal marriage tye.  It’s the one thing that Allison and Scott argued about during the entire wedding planning nightmare.  Scott wanted a simple braided linen rope, soaked in frankincense and myrrh for prosperity, simplicity and new beginnings.   But Allison’s family has used the same silver chain for hundreds of years.  She couldn’t stomach breaking the tradition.

Stiles smiles when the priest removes a long silver chain braided with two strands of linen.  The cloth twists around the knots in the chain where various pendants hang.  

The bow and arrow, symbolizing the Argents who fought in the Hundred Years War, settle directly over Allison’s heart.  The diamond Allison’s grandapa added to symbolize the death of Chris’s opa shines on Scott’s wrist.  And, finally, the little wolf howling at the moon flashes in the center of the strand between the couple.  Stiles doesn’t know what it represents.  He imagines it as Scott and Allison’s passion: always intense, a little compulsive, _animal_  in its ferocity.

The intricate lines of the rope spin down their clasped hands and around their bodies.  Scott and Allison lean their foreheads together in the center of it all.  They stare into each other’s eyes like every sentimental wedding moment in every sentimental wedding movie until the end of time.  Even Stiles tears up at seeing two people so achingly happy.

“One breath.  One heart.  One being.  One union under God,” the priest chants as he rubs a small line of holy water against each of their cheeks.  “Allison Argent, what alpha represents you to testify to this union?”

“Alpha Genim Stilinski.”

Stiles’s palms sweat, but he steps up to the altar.  He had been Best Alpha at his apa’s wedding to Melissa.  But that was a small backyard ceremony, not an elegant old church crammed full of two hundred people.

Stiles settles his hands on the outside of Scott and Allison’s.  He squeezes them, trying not to laugh as Scott tickles him with his pinky.

“Do you, Alpha Stilinski, testify to the strength of this union?”

“I do.”

“Do you testify to the faithfulness of this alpha?”

Stiles looks into Allison’s eyes, seeing them shining with happiness and just a small amount of fear.  Stiles hasn’t told her about Isaac.  He never will.  “I do,” he replies smoothly.

“Do you testify, with God as your witness, to the veracity of this bond and its intentions?”

That one is easier.  “I do.”

“Thank you, Alpha Stilinski.”

It’s difficult to release their joined hands.  It’s even harder to step back into line with Danny and Erica.  Scott and Allison have been bonded for ages and have been a couple for longer, but this still feels like letting go.  Not much will change, but they will have skipped yet another stage farther down the path than Stiles.

“Scott McCall, what omega represents you to testify to this union?”

“Omega Jackson Whittemore.”

Jackson struts forward in the hideous orange calamity Scott's lack of taste picked for his bridesmaids.  Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes, even here at the altar.  Jackson is only the best omega by default, considering that all Scott’s closest friends are alphas.  He shouldn’t be so proud.  

“Do you, Omega Whittemore, testify to the strength of this union?”

“I do.”

“Do you testify to the purity of this omega?”

“I do.”  Only Jackson could testify to that with a straight face.  The evidence of Scott’s lack of purity is bulging between the couple.  Even though the church now counts purity to the time of the bonding bite, Scott and Allison didn’t even wait that long.

“Do you testify that this omega is willing and his intentions are honest?”

That vow, at least, is easy.  “I do.”

The priest motions for the heads of family to approach.  Stiles's apa tries to help Allison's grandapa stand, but the indomitable Argent patriarch pushes him off.  

They each light a candle from the massive candle near the altar.  Stiles idly wonders how long that thing will take to burn out.  

The priest turns to Gerard Argent, who stands proud in a dark black suit, missing his usual cane.  “Do you, Patriarch Argent, accept this omega into your family?  To be protected and cherished?  To accept his children?  To treat him as your own?”

“I do,” Argent replies to each vow, voice booming with confidence.  When he looks at that harsh, worn face and that smug smile, all Stiles can think of is Allison firing arrow after arrow in stoic rage.  Her grandapa had not approved of her bonding a Latino boy from a middle-class family.  When Allison had turned down Yale to be with Scott, he had nearly disowned her.  And when she stayed with Scott after college, he cut her off.  That's what forced her to work as a professional heat therapist the year before Scott was accepted to med school.  Stiles hasn’t forgiven him, even though Allison has.

Of course, now that Scott is well on his way to becoming a respectable doctor and already pregnant,  that geriatric asshole is beaming like it was all his idea to begin with.  Stiles wants to kick his dentures in.

“And do you, Patriarch Stilinski, surrender your child to the House of Argent, to be protected and cherished?" the priest continues the call and response.

“I do,” Stiles's apa says, stalwart and firm.  He’d argued with Alpha McCall over the right to present Scott as part of the Stilinski family today, but he’s so confident in the role that nobody could guess that he’d had to fight off an FBI investigation for the privilege.  

"For his offspring to take the Argent name?" the priest continues.  "To treat this noble house as family, with Christ as your witness?”

John Stilinski manages to do what Stiles could not and agrees to pass Scott over to Allison's creepy, mafia-like, arms-dealing family.  Luckily, Stiles doesn't believe in any of this religious mumbo jumb anyway.  Otherwise he would object.  

“Then please join the flames of your two houses to light the candle of this new union.  You will be bound together in sacred inheritance once the fire is lit.  May it burn eternal.”

The two alphas touch the tips of their candles together as they lower them.  Stiles sees the poetry in lighting the marriage candle with twin flames, he'd just rather see his apa use his candle to set Allison's gun-toting, racist asshole of a patriarch on fire.

The priest produces an ornate golden bowl filled with thick red paint.  “Allison Argent, you have already bonded the body of this omega with your mark.  It is time to mark his soul as your own.”

Allison dips her fingers in the bowl and traces the mark on the side of Scott’s neck.  It shimmers like fresh blood, like Stiles's mark on Derek had.  Stiles wonders how she intends to not get red all over Scott's cream colored gown.  

The priest carefully washes the paint from her hand with holy water, but Allison looks at Scott the whole time.  Maybe she’s remembering the night when they were still sixteen when she bonded him.  Or maybe she’s imagining the future, how many kids they’ll have after Dahlia, and their perfect yuppie life.  Or maybe she’s actually bewildered by this very moment, happy to be here with Scott and all her loved ones.  Whatever it is, it makes her practically glow.

“Bound together in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer, until death breaks the bond apart,” the priest concludes.  

“Amen,” Stiles mumbles along with the crowd.

“As I untie you, may you remain bound in Christ.”

Scott doesn’t wait for the priest to invite the kiss.  He just leans in to capture Allison’s lips.  Allison smears the paint all over her hand and Scott's shoulder, but the gown remains untarnished.  When he pulls back they both have tears of happiness in their eyes.

Stiles looks away as the priest untangles the knot.  He should be happy.  He is.  It’s just that looking into their smiling faces is like looking into the sun.  He can’t stand the brightness when his own world is so mundane.  Without Derek, it seems destined to stay that way.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wipes his sweating palms on his pants.  This tux is a rental anyway, so why shouldn’t he?  

He’s not sure why he’s nervous to give the toast.  He's never turned his back on an opportunity to embarrass himself.    He'd even fallen flat on his face in a giant condom suit while giving a presentation at the STD prevention assembly.  But he’d been young then--naive and unaware.  

Now he knows how important this moment is.  He knows how many of his friends and family are here and he knows what they will say about him if he fails.  They’ll say he’s just the same old spastic, wacky Stiles.  They’ll wonder how he’s managed to found his own company or even live on his own.  They’ll agree that he’s not a good friend and that’s why he doesn’t have many.  He’s too crazy, too selfish, too prickly to get close to, like Erica said.  They’ll say, ‘No wonder why everyone you love leaves you.  You deserve it.’  He probably does.

His first attempt at ringing his glass ends in disaster.  The playful harvest-themed centerpiece gets doused in his champagne.  Allison’s ama arches a perfect eyebrow, stands with perfect posture in her perfect suit.  She raises her own glass and gives it one crowd-silencing tap that echoes through the reception tent like a bell.

“Good evening, alphas and omegas, ladies and gentlemen,” she announces.  “I believe the best alpha has a few words for us all.”  As usual, with one look, she manages to convey her disdain for Stiles and the bad influence of his queer habits.  At least Allison’s opa is smiling encouragingly.  He never liked Stiles either, but he's always been supportive of Scott.

Stiles clears his throat, his voice cracking like it’s sophomore year all over again.  There are hundreds of eyes on him, expectant, impatient, disappointed already.

“So,” Stiles says to the crowd.  His speech is well researched and obsessively planned.  He typed it out on notecards, memorized it.  He even practiced it in the middle of pheromone training until Mason threatened to quit.  Still, when he looks down the line of the high table to Scott’s grinning face, he stalls.  Tears spring to his eyes.  

It’s surreal.  It's like looking up from beneath the surface of the water, seeing backlit faces above the shimmering barrier as he languishes in the muffled darkness beneath.  The wedding tent with its fairy lights and sparkling crystal glasses, the fancy dresses and the expectant crowd -- it’s too bright and polished and happy.  This isn’t Stiles’s life.  His life is a world away.  It’s a dark apartment, lit only by the artificial glow of a budget spreadsheet.  It’s the fog rolling in over the city.  It’s plastic smile after plastic smile as he gives his elevator pitch over and over again.  It’s street after street of bustling metropolis, as he looks around ever corner for the one person he desperately wants to see.  He's been so busy festering in the pain of unrequited love that he’d forgotten how glorious it can look when it’s returned.  Scott wears it well.  

Allison kicks him with her foot under the table and Stiles clears his throat yet again.  “Sorry, um,” he fiddles with his bowtie.  The high alpha collar is stifling and unfamiliar, like a noose around his neck.  He imagines what Derek would say.   _That’s what you get for dressing like a slob all the time._   

“It’s not every day you get to give the best alpha’s speech at your brother’s wedding, you know?”  He’s hyperventilating a little, but it’s no big deal.  He can do this.  He met with a panel of investors on Monday to dance for his supper yet again; this is just a wedding.  Scott and Allison will ride off into the sunset no matter what he says.  Nothing is at stake except his pride.

A few people chuckle nervously along with him.  Victoria scowls.  Luckily Stiles’s apa and Melissa are only a few seats from her at the family table.  Melissa has tears in her eyes already and apa goes full dorky parent and gives him a thumbs up.

Stiles looks down at his hand, where the sharpie he used to write on his palm is already smudged with sweat.   _Choices_ , the smudge reads.  Choices, the thing that Stiles thought about over and over again those sleepless nights alone in his cramped apartment.  Choices, thinking about Derek and why he didn’t show up to their meeting.  It was a choice, one that Stiles is still glad he gave him.  But why did Derek pick it?  Did he hate Stiles now, for having taken advantage?  Did he have another, better alpha?  Did the procedure go wrong?  Did therapy?  Is he just a workaholic at heart, uninterested in an alpha?  Or is it Stiles?  Would Derek have come for someone else, but not scrawny, spastic, poor, mostly-gay Stiles?  

“Choices,” Stiles mumbles under his breath.  This isn’t about Derek and the choice he made.  It’s about Scott and Allison and how they chose the opposite.

“I’m here as Allison’s best alpha.  Even though, as most of you know, I was Scott’s friend first.  I’m sad I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure to know Allison without Scott.  I met her exactly twenty seconds before the fateful pen loaning that marked the beginning of all this.”  He gestures to everything from Scott’s huge stomach to the pumpkin centerpieces.  

"I know that gathered here in this glittering tent with the fancy flatware and the beautiful fall leaves on the trees outside, and this absolutely perfect, glowing couple sitting in front of us, it’s easy to think that it was fate.  I mean, judging by the elephant in the room…yes, Scott, I mean you and the chestburster in your belly.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows at Stiles from the ‘actual friends of the couple’ table.

“I’m not saying you look like an elephant, bro,” Stiles amends.  Not that Scott would actually care.  “But that you’re pregnant and long-ago bonded.  The marriage itself is a formality at this point.  You’ve been headed here for a long time now.  So looking at you, it’s easy to think that you handed Allison that pen and boom: destiny.  Blink and you're here, in a beautiful gown, kissing your alpha in front of our family and friends.”

The crowd looks a bit doubtful, but they are hanging on Stiles’s every word.  The flash of the wedding photographer’s camera goes off.  Ruth wiggles in Melissa’s arms.  Jackson looks, predictably, nauseated by the whole sentimental affair.  A part of Stiles wants to leave it there.  There is no Princess Charming, no One True Bond.  Romance isn’t a fairy tale.  Maybe it isn’t even something to aspire to.  Except, looking at the way Allison stares at Scott, he knows it is.

“The thing about couples like Scott and Allison,” Stiles continues.  “Is that they make it look easy.  They go from high school sweethearts to college lovebirds to house-buying, baby-having, adorable yuppies with a white picket fence and a swing set.  Those of us who are still single, who maybe already let go of the one great love of our life, sit around and bitterly resent how easy it must be for them.  Wouldn't it be nice to find someone you adore so early on?  Wouldn’t you love to never have to experience heartbreak?”

A few people are actually nodding.  Stiles isn’t sure if that makes them assholes.  If they are, then Stiles is king of the assholes.  As much as he loves his brother and his new wife, he’s bitter and resentful still.  

“But, I’m here to tell you that I’ve been there with them through it all.  And it hasn’t been perfect and it hasn’t been easy.  I’ve had Scott crying on my shoulder.  I've seen Allison throw up half a gallon of whiskey and still manage to shoot like a billion rage arrows at the bullseye.  I’ve watched them struggle and curse each other.  I've even seen them do their damnedest to break each other’s hearts.”

Allison’s eyes are wide, her posture tense and still.  She keeps a pleasant smile on her lips, but Stiles knows her so well that he knows exactly what she’s thinking.  Is he really going to bring up Isaac and that betrayal on her wedding day?  

“Don’t worry, guys, I’m not about to air all your dirty laundry,” Stiles jokes.  The crowd laughs jovially.  They seem relieved to know that there’s something real beneath the Disney-romance exterior.  “Actually, I do want to share a few things.  Nothing embarrassing.”

“Yeah right,” Danny snorts under his breath from his seat to Stiles’s left.

“Fine, maybe a little embarrassing.  Did you all know that Allison got into Yale?  She went to Berkeley so she could stay with Scott.”  A few people nod.  The well-manicured crowd at the ‘Argent Arms Board of Directors’ table looks disgruntled.  “And did you know that Scott snores like a chainsaw and also sleep sneezes?  I don’t even know if that’s a thing, but if you ever share a room with Scott, bring your earplugs because it sounds like gunshots.  Doesn’t even wake up, my bro, just scares the shit out of you and keeps dozing.”

Scott has his face buried in his hands, but he’s laughing.  

“And Allison,” Stiles continues.  “Allison is so stubborn and competitive that she once got arrested because she absolutely needed to win the first and only Alpha Delta Phi blindfolded naked paddleboard race across Lake Mead.  She works long hours and has enforced a pregnancy diet that, frankly, I consider inhumane.  I mean, what heartless soul would throw out a man’s entire stash of Doritos?”

“You weren’t going to eat them, though, right?” Stiles hears Kira ask Scott, who shrugs.

“I lived with these two,” Stiles goes on.  “And it wasn’t easy.  It wasn’t a fairy tale happily ever after.  But it _is_ special.  Not because they met in high school or because they’re both positive and caring and have like the maximum amount of dimples allowed per couple.  It’s special because they work at it and have worked at it for the past ten years.”

“Today, when the priest asked them to marry, it wasn’t a foregone conclusion.  It was a choice.  One choice in a long line of choices.  Scott and Allison have chosen each other again and again and again.  Allison chose to stay with Scott over Yale.  She chose to take a year off of pursuing her family legacy while he worked to get into Med School.  Scott chose to bond with Allison.  He chose to let her work as a heat therapist because she had the power to help those who couldn’t help themselves.  They both even chose to move to Boston, even though I consider it an epic betrayal.”

Allison rolls her eyes, no doubt remembering the tantrum Stiles had thrown.  In his defense, he'd let them have their driver's licenses and passports back eventually.  And the scavenger hunt to find them had been fun.  Scott looks just as contrite today as he did the day he'd told Stiles.  Things aren't as world ending as Stiles had claimed, but they're still not good.  Stiles has been spinning out for months, he realizes, and Scott must feel terrible that he can't be there to save him from it.  Stiles shoots him a reassuring smile.  It’s forgiven.

“It’s not just the big choices, though," Stiles continues.  "It’s the little ones they make every day.  Allison chooses not to sleep on the couch to hide from World War Snoring every night.  Scott chooses to surrender his Doritos with a smile (a Herculean feat as far as I’m concerned).  They choose to keep telling each other how much they love each other, to make time each week for date night, to compromise on everything from the cars they drive to the movies they see to the time they go to bed.  Most importantly, they choose to let each other in, let each other see the messy little humans beneath the dimpled fairy tale mask without fear that it’ll diminish their love for each other.

"Some days they fail.  They get into petty arguments or snap at each other when one has a bad day.  But they make choices that honor each other so many more times than not.  And they choose to trust that they will keep making that one important choice over and over again: to keep choosing each other.”

Allison gazes into Scott’s eyes.  One hand on his cheek and the other on his belly, she leans in to kiss him.  It’s another choice.  Stiles wonders if, even after this whole speech, she knows how lucky she is to be in a position to make it.

“So it isn’t fate," Stiles concludes.  "The key to Happily Ever After is dedication, pure and simple.  If only we were all so lucky.”

The crowd erupts into applause.  A few couples kiss, including Stiles’s apa and Melissa.  Scott reaches out for Stiles to lean down to hug him.  “Thank you, buddy,” he whispers.  He's flushed and there are tears in his eyes.  “I know that was hard for you, but it was beautiful.”

“Anything to blow Jackson and the dude he hired to write his speech out of the water,” Stiles says with a half-hearted wink.

He’s stiff.  The nervous sweat has dried into a chill on his skin.  He falls into his seat.  He may be the center of attention right now, but he might as well be the proverbial tree in the proverbial forest, defeated without a sound.

Love is about choices and in the end, the love he would choose over and over and over...didn’t choose Stiles back.

 

* * *

 

Stiles knows he’s in trouble when Boyd slides into the chair next to him.  He doesn’t even need to speak for Stiles to already regret all his life choices.  That includes the four glasses of whiskey he’d downed while Scott wasn’t looking.

“You okay?” Boyd asks.  They watch as Allison expertly waltzes with her opa, swift and athletic.  Scott, in deference to his enormous belly, cheers them on from the sidelines like it's baseball, not a cotillion.  

Stiles bounces baby Grace in his lap as they look on.   He'll keep his promise to Jackson, even though the Mahealanis have brought their nanny.  Unlike her opa, Gracie is a quiet, joyful baby.  She babbles at him as she does her best to put Stiles’s fingers in her mouth.  It underlines the ache deep in Stiles’s chest.  Stupid fucking Jackson gets to have this gorgeous little girl and Stiles passes out in his clothes most nights.

“Watching Jackson vomit into a cornucopia basket during his best omega speech has made me the happiest man on Earth,” Stiles replies.

Boyd grunts.  “I don’t think it’s polite to be gleeful at the misfortune of pregnant people.”

“When it’s Jackson, it is,” Stiles replies.  Though he had noticed how Jackson glared at his alpha when he dumped Grace on Stiles.  Considering the way the room floats by on a whiskey wisp cloud, that was undoubtedly a terrible parenting decision.  Maybe things are so rocky in married paradise that Jackson didn’t even realize how much Stiles had gotten his drink on.

“You mean Jackson, who gave you a third of the startup capital for your business?”

“Yeah, I guess.  It’s just he’s so…he likes to rub everything in people’s faces.  Bringing Grace and that stupid au pair along to investor meetings, going on and on about all the gifts his husband buys him because he loves him so much, asking me when I’m going to knock up one of my stable of omegas so Grace can have playmates…like heat therapy is some kind of harem.  He’s a spoiled fucking brat who could stand to be taken down a peg.”

Boyd looks down his nose at Stiles in disdain.  They both love Erica enough to try to get along, but no matter what he does, Stiles always seems to rub him the wrong way.   He used to think that it was the brief affair Stiles had with Erica before she met Boyd.  Now he thinks Boyd might have more substantial reasons.

“Stiles,” Boyd mumbles in his deep baritone.  “Did you ever wonder why Jackson has to bring Grace around with him?"

"Because he doesn't trust that stupid German nanny of his?"

"Danny was supposed to take off work once she was born.”

“Yeah, but he has the au pair now, so Danny could go back to work.  He bought Jackson a Tesla to make up for it.  He's told me about a hundred times.”

“And do you think that Jackson prefers a Tesla Roadster and a nanny to his alpha?”

Stiles shrugs.  Jackson had flaunted his Porsche all throughout high school.  At the time he cared more about Scott scratching the fender than Lydia dumping him for another alpha.  It's not such a stretch to think he cares more about the car now.

“Do you think he was planning to be pregnant again for Scott’s wedding?”

Now that Stiles thinks about it, he's sure that he didn't.  There’s no way Jackson would have ruined the line of his gown with even the slight baby bump he's sporting.

“Everyone knows birth control is least effective your first heat after giving birth,” Stiles argues.  He's heard how _amazing_  Danny's knot is a hundred times by now.  It's not too far fetched to believe that they just couldn't control themselves.

“Using condoms is standard,” Boyd replies.  “Conceiving on the first post partum heat causes more side-effects for the omega.”

“What, so you’re saying that nice, smiling Danny, who everyone loved in high school…who stopped a lacrosse game to go rescue Mrs. Flattery's cat, is some kind of abusive jackass?  And _Jackson_  is somehow the victim?”

“No.  I’m saying that you were right.  It’s never clear cut.  It’s just choices.  Danny and Jackson have both made some bad ones.  Right now it’s Jackson who’s suffering."

"Okay, maybe.  But you can't expect me to psychoanalyze Jackson."

"I can.   _You_  can.  You’re just too stuck in your own heartache to notice. Now you’re drunk and holding a baby.  You gave a best alpha’s speech all about your breakup.”

“Hey, that was a kick ass speech!  They loved it!”

Boyd just raises his eyebrows.

“Fine, maybe it was a little breakup-related, but the message lands either way.”

Boyd claps a huge hand on Stiles’s shoulder and pluck’s Grace from his arms.  “It’s time to move on from that omega, Stiles.  Otherwise your life will pass you by.”

Stiles watches as Boyd saunters away.  Erica immediately abandons her conversation with Kira and Deaton to coo at the baby.  The bittersweet look the two of them share gives Stiles pause.  Even though female alphas can carry fertilized embryos, it's expensive.  Watching Derek suffer through the side effects of even the pre-extraction process showed Stiles exactly why.  He wonders, if they had been a straight couple, maybe Erica and Boyd would have kids already.  He feels a pang deep in his already tenderized heart.

Stiles gazes around the room, wondering what else he's missed while he’s been obsessing over Derek.  On the dance floor, Allison kisses her opa on the cheek.  They look like the proud omega parent and adoring alpha child they've always been.  She's all smiles; nothing to miss there.  But then Allison looks at her ama, busy chatting with the board of directors.  The grin slips for a brief second.  Stiles doesn’t miss the telltale stiffness in her shoulders as she puts her smile back on.  Her opa notices too and cups her cheek, drawing her focus again.

Scott, meanwhile, is rubbing at his lower back.  Stiles stands to see if there’s anything he can do, only to have Lydia beat him to it.  She grins at him and begins a practiced massage.  That’s a new development.  As the members of the lacrosse team in their year, Allison, Stiles, Jackson, and Danny were good friends.  Scott and Lydia tagged along until she and Jackson broke up during sophomore year.  When Stiles came out a few months after she did, they had remained close friends.  She still saw Scott and Allison, but they were never close.  She's not even in the wedding party.  And yet she’s smiling at Scott, teasing him.  Cora, the mysterious girlfriend, also seems to know Scott well.  She pulls up a chair and lifts his swollen feet onto it, giving his ankles a little massage in the process.

Stiles frowns.   _He’s_  the best alpha, and Scott’s brother too.  If Allison is otherwise occupied, then comforting Scott should be his job.  Why is this stranger putting her hands all over him?  Except Cora isn’t a stranger.  She’s been dating Lydia for years, even if she and Stiles have never formally met before the wedding.  She’s been here, in Boston, where Scott and Allison are.  They’ve all been here for each other while Stiles has been off in California, missing it all.  

 _You could move out here,_  that sweet, stubborn voice in the back of his head entices.  Deaton could buy him out of the clinic. Stiles could take the money and go back to school or maybe become a cop after all.  He could do worse than one of Boston’s Finest.

But that’s an unrealistic dream.  It’s running away from San Francisco and the way its once young freedom turned sour with age.  His business is in California, as is his apa, his home, his other friends.  He can’t quit when his life there is just getting started.  There are seven million people in the Bay Area.  The chances that he’ll ever see Derek again are next to none. But maybe once the clinic is stable, he could move home. it's only a few hours away and though things aren't healed between him and Apa after one heart to heart, they're better than he ever could have imagined. Maybe if he did his part to heal their family, Scott would have something to return to.

Stiles stumbles his way towards the dance floor.  In the pre-wedding excitement and with his continuing devastation over Derek, he hasn’t had a chance to talk to Lydia.

She whirls around as soon as he approaches, her preternatural social sense kicking in to let her know he’s there.  It’s creepy, as always.

“Stiles.”  She crosses her arms over her chest.  Her delicate omega-style sweetheart dress emphasizes her cleavage.  “There you are.”

She grabs him by the hand and yanks him onto the dance floor.  Stiles is still a little drunk, so he trips on the hem of the sheer outer shell of her overlay dress.  Then he isn’t sure which of them should take the omega role.  Lydia just sighs and pulls him close, her hand like a vice around his waist.  He breathes in her scent of vanilla and spice, as comforting as only old loves can be.  He’s missed her dizzying intellect, the way she challenges him.  

The melancholy saxophone trips along to Louis Armstrong’s rendition of _La Vie En Rose_ , the song that had sparked a massive argument between Scott and Allison the one time they tried to take a class together in college.  Stiles blames the fact that music appreciation isn’t even a real subject, just being a fan for rich tweed-bedazzled snobs.  But in spite of the great lyric translation fight, Scott and Allison are swaying along to the music now.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into Lydia’s strawberry blond hair.  He hasn’t even told her about Derek.  Maybe he's afraid of what she'd say.  Lydia can be harsher with the straight talk than even Boyd.

“Don’t get all maudlin on me now, Stiles,” Lydia grumbles.  “It’s only for a little while longer.  In a few months you’ll be wishing I was a coast away from setting that travesty of a wardrobe on fire.”

“What?” Stiles asks.

“You dress like a lesbian,” she replies.  “Consider this notice of my intent to incinerate your plaid, down to the picometer.”

“Yes, yes, but a few months, Lydia?  Why in a few months?”

“Oh.  Jackson didn’t tell you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Like I voluntarily make small talk with Jackson.”  Though now Stiles realizes he should make more of an effort.  Jackson is probably down in the city helping with the business all the time exactly because he needs to make small talk.  Anything but deal with a baby and a studious German who puts butter on all his sandwiches.

“Hmm.  I assumed that his desire to be the center of attention with such juicy gossip would overwhelm his natural inclination to be an ass.  I must have miscalculated.”

“You know, you could always _call_  and tell me this juicy gossip yourself.”  Why is Lydia calling Jackson anyway?  He forgave her using him as a slipknot before she came out, but they're not close.  Then again, maybe he called her.  

“No.  That doesn’t sound like me,” Lydia replies, considering.  “But you’ll hear it now.  Cora and I are moving out to San Francisco for at least a year.  Actually, Cora has been out there for a few months already.  I’m just waiting until the semester’s over before I join her.”

“But, Lydia, your fellowship, the NSF grant, your mentor...”

She shrugs, as though she hadn’t sworn she’d stay in Boston for the next five years.  Stiles remembers the endless refrain of _there's no place better for advanced mathematics than MIT_.  “The grant will follow me, which makes me a catch as a visiting scholar.  As for Thompson, I’m far beyond what that grizzled old coot can teach me.  And I need a break from winter.  It’s so hard to moisturize.”

“Dude, what brought this on?  You didn’t look back when you came out here for college in the first place.  And you may not like winter, but you like the excuse to wear a Burberry coat every day.  What happened to ‘nothing can comfort me the way a Field’s Medal can?’”

Lydia sighs.  “We all do crazy things for love, Stiles.  You, gifter of giant flatscreen TVs, should know this.”

Stiles chuckles, reminiscing about how silly his courtship of Lydia had been.  Then again, he might have tried even harder if he ever thought he’d hear ice-queen, tough-as-nails Lydia try to use love as an excuse.  He thought Lydia would stay constant.  She was his North Star of clinical rationalism in a topsy turvy world.

“So what exactly are you doing for love?  Why San Francisco?  I thought Cora was from Boston.”

Lydia shakes her head.  “That's what I thought when I first told you about her.  She'd dropped out and was bartending and working construction when I met her.  She cursed like an old blue collar Bostonian."  Stiles can’t believe Lydia would fall for someone who didn’t finish high school, let alone a PhD.  To keep Lydia interested, Cora must be incredibly street smart or have magic tits that squirt complex equations.

"So she's from San Francisco and you didn't figure that out?"  It's unusual for Lydia to drop the ball like that, and she knows it.

She gives her most insouciant shrug, a sure sign her pride has been wounded.  "She was a runaway.  She was hiding it."

"So you guys are moving back to California so she can reconcile with her parents?" Stiles hypothesizes.

"Her parents and two of her siblings were killed in a car crash when she was young.  Her remaining siblings are still there: an alpha sister and an omega brother.  She's already reconciled.  She doesn't get along with the sister, but her brother is very important to her."

"Oh.  Then why move back now?  Is one of them dying?  Is it cancer?  The brother has cancer, doesn't he?”

Lydia looks over her shoulder towards the rest of the wedding party.  Already exhausted from dancing, Scott is letting his dreaded Abuelita pinch his cheeks and pat his belly.  Erica is pretending to waltz with baby Grace.  Jackson and Danny are letting their tongues reconcile with each other's mouths.  Nobody is listening in.

“Okay, Stiles, I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it to yourself for now.  Not like, Jackson keep it to yourself.  Actually keep it to yourself.”

Stiles nods vigorously.  He doesn't want to be at the periphery of things for once.

“We didn’t want to upstage Scott and Allison’s big day, so we haven’t told anybody yet," Lydia whispers.  

"You're getting married?" Stiles guesses.  Lydia resents ever being behind-trend.

She shakes her head.  "Cora and I are going to be parents.”

“What?!”

Stiles is shocked.  As much as she hates being off track, Lydia also hates to do things out of order.  Stiles never would have thought she'd start the IVF process before getting married.  Especially if she were given the choice of wedding photos pre- or post-baby body.  

He eyes her flat belly suspiciously.  "Is it in there already?"  He reaches out only to have his hand swatted away.  

"Don't touch my stomach!" she snaps.  "Inappropriate."

“You're inappropriate!"  Stiles hisses.  "You didn’t tell me you guys were even trying!”  Not that Lydia ever feels any special need to confide in him.  Lydia doesn’t need anyone, ever.  

"Well, nothing's in there, so you can forget about any belly gropes for a long time."

Of course.  If Cora is moving closer to her family, she's obviously the one carrying it.  Stiles had assumed that as a massive control freak and the more omega-like of the two, Lydia would carry.  But as a gay alpha, he knows that doesn't mean anything.  Lydia is focused on her career, while Cora is independently wealthy.  Lydia's also a giant pain in the ass whenever she's sick or gains a pound, so maybe letting Cora do it is wise.

"Right.  But isn't this sudden?  It's not as though you can have an oopsie baby like that ridiculous elephant over there."  He gestures to Scott.  "Why now?"

Lydia smiles, but there’s something a little sad in it.  “We had an opportunity we couldn’t pass up.  Besides, everyone else seems to be doing it.  This is good,” she affirms.  If anything, her smile gets even more brittle.  "Dahlia and Gracie and Ruth and Jackson's new one can keep them company."

Stiles knows when Lydia isn't telling him the whole truth.  But he also knows that he'll never get her to tell him something she doesn't want to.   He gives up for now.  He has months to get to the bottom of it, after all.  

“Lydia, oh my god, this is huge!  Congratulations.  I’m sorry, those totally should have been the first words out of my mouth.”  He hugs her tighter than even the dance allows.

With that, the song ends.  Lydia kisses Stiles on the cheek before sashaying off in her curve-hugging cocktail dress and precariously high heels.  Stiles stares wistfully after her.  

“Hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave,” he mumbles to himself, even though Lydia is just another friend moving off into adulthood and leaving him behind.  

 

* * *

 

The bouquet toss goes off without a hitch.  Kira catches it easily, despite being one of the shortest adults in contention.  She crows that she didn’t even deliver an accidental elbow to anyone's face.  Always one for a competition, Allison offered an expensive and incredibly badass hunting knife to the winner of the garter toss, which, predictably, resulted in total carnage.  Stiles thinks Erica may have been trying to dislocate his shoulder, despite the fact that she’s already married.  She just _loves_  switchblades.

“You did that on purpose,” Lydia accuses Allison where they regroup near the cake.  She’s flushed and angry, but not a hair on her head is out of place.  "Everything is rush week with you."

"Hey, Lydia, at least she gave you good odds," Stiles offers.  "You and Cora had two alphas in the race."

"And I was victorious," Cora adds, twirling Scott's garter around her fingers.  She has a few strands falling out of her previously perfect chignon updo, but her wolfish smile says it was all worth it.  She's exactly as terrifying as Lydia, but in a more 'I will literally kick your ass' way.  Stiles can understand why they want each other, though he's a little concerned it may one day end in world domination.

“We all know the two of you are the next to get married,” Allison replies, rolling her eyes.  “I just wanted to see you work for it.”

“Allison, not in Louboutins!” Lydia whines.

Allison doesn’t seem at all regretful.  “You are an alpha, you know.  You could have worn flats.”

Lydia huffs and stomps her foot a little.  Allison grins.  She has always loved to yank Lydia's chain.

“Hey, Lydia's girlfriend!” comes Jackson’s uptight braying voice as he saunters up to the group.  “Nice tramp stamp.”  Clearly having a baby strapped to his chest does nothing to mute the bitchiness.  

Cora’s hand goes immediately to the small of her back.  The tussle over the garter has tugged her backless green dress to reveal a sliver of red ink.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Allison says as Lydia scolds Jackson for using the word tramp stamp.  

“Well, I do,” Cora replies, crossing her arms over her chest.  Lydia picked a firecracker with a short fuse and no willingness to tolerate fools.  They're perfect for each other.

“Who has a tattoo?” Scott comes waddling over, letting Allison cup his belly.  Scott loves tattoos to the point of giddiness.  He’s already reaching towards the sliver of red ink on Cora’s back.  “Can I see?  Please?”

Cora tenses, but Allison jumps in.  “Sorry, Cora, but he’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to tattoos.  Better just show him.  Don’t worry.  He’ll love it no matter how embarrassing it is.”

With a put-upon sigh and an eyeroll, Cora turns her back to the group and yanks her dress down.

Stiles gasps.  It’s a triskelion.  The _same_  triskelion as Derek’s.”

It’s a coincidence, he tells himself.  He misses Derek more than breathing.  Of course everything that reminds him of the guy will feel like some sign that he’s destined to meet him again.  Stiles is smarter than that.  He knows it’s just synchronicity, a Baader-Meinhof phenomenon.  

Except Cora is an orphan, originally from San Francisco.  Derek’s little sister’s name is Cora.  They both have the tattoo.

“That’s beautiful,” Scott says.  He runs his fingers over the spirals without permission.  Cora flinches a little, but Scott doesn’t notice.  “What does it mean?”

“I got it for my family,” Cora replies.  “Me and my brother and sister.  Us against the world.”

Stiles’s heart stops.  Or maybe he’s dreaming.  Or maybe he’s going to vomit.

“Connected spirals converging on three fixed points,” Lydia is saying.  She wraps an arm around Cora’s waist and gives her a kiss.  They’re too wrapped up in each other to notice Stiles begin to shake.

Scott is observant, though.  “Stiles?”  He lumbers closer.  “Are you okay?”

Stiles shakes his head.  Scott frowns, but he doesn’t interfere when Stiles grabs Cora by the elbow and pleads.  “I need to talk to you.”

She shakes his his hand off with a scowl.  “Boundaries, Stilinski.  Learn them.”

“Right.  Fine.  Whatever.  Sorry.”  He steps back, flailing like it’s still high school and he still only tenuously in control of his limbs.  

Cora’s glare seems to say, ‘I just fought off a mass of desperately single alphas for a military-grade carbon steel hunting knife.’  But she must see something of the abject panic in Stiles’s eyes because she purses her lips, gaze softening.  “Fine.”

She follows him towards the tent entrance and out into the jet black night.  The canvas walls do little to muffle the sounds of the party--loud music and laughter and the clatter of silverware, the opposite of the trembling time bomb of hope and fear churning in Stiles’s chest.  

Cora shivers pointedly, but won’t accept Stiles’s jacket.  When Stiles does nothing but stare out into the deserted meadow and the clouded sky, she snaps, “Okay, I’m out here.  Now _what_?”

“Do you,” Stiles forces out, “by any chance, have a brother named Derek?”

“Yeah.”  Cora’s glower melts into a grin.  She really is quite beautiful.  As devastatingly good looking as her brother even.  “Do you know him?”

Stiles gulps down a deep breath.  He’s probably violating the terms of his contract this very moment, but it’s the first time he’s felt awake in months.  “Yes.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Cora says.  “I told him to get in contact with you about using your clinic for heat therapy.  He said you recommended a great therapist.  Didn’t he tell you that Lydia’s girlfriend referred him?”

Stiles shakes his head.  Oh god.  It all makes sense now.  He almost forgot that Derek requested him by his license number.  He’d assumed that Derek had done his research and requested the most experienced therapist at the clinic.  He never even considered that Derek could have gotten a personal recommendation.  

Cora laughs.  “It’s just like that dork.  I’m sorry Stiles, my brother is a sour little asshole.”

Stiles's hands are trembling so he forces them into his pockets. Turns out he _can_  find Derek in a haystack of seven million people.  Because it isn't random.  He’d been one degree of separation away all this time.  And Derek knew it.  He’d known all along.

Stiles’s blood runs cold.  If Derek knew that Stiles was friends with Cora’s girlfriend, then he must have known that he would run into Stiles at some point.  That means the extra contract was about Stiles staying away from him _now_.   Something time sensitive must be happening.  Morrell said that Derek was well enough to see him and implied that he's not dying.  But Derek had already been so sick from the hormone treatments.  The procedure has some serious side effects, including infertility, a ruptured ovary, infection, even liver damage.  Maybe something awful did happen.  

Cora clearly doesn’t know that Stiles is Derek's heat therapist or that he signed a contract not to get more information...maybe she'll tell him what he needs to know.

“We were friends,” Stiles manages to blurt out.  “Or, I guess I think we were.  He, um, makes it hard to tell.”  He may be on the verge of a panic attack, but at least he still remembers how to lie by omission like a goddamned pro.

Cora sighs.  “Yeah, that sounds like my brother.  Completely emotionally constipated.  Would rather die than let on even a little that he likes you.  Judgy fucking eyebrows.”

Stiles misses those judgy eyebrows.  “Yeah,” he huffs.  “I haven’t heard from him in a few months.  I was really worried about him, actually.  He was undergoing a serious medical procedure and then....  Is he doing alright?”

Cora rolls her eyes.  “Typical.  That stupid, secretive fucker.  When is he going to learn that people care about him?  No matter how prickly he is, people will care because that’s what people do.  He has a support system.  Just because Laura would rather maintain the fantasy that he’s not an omega....  You’re a heat therapist and you dress like a lesbian.  It’s not like you’re going to judge.”

“Of course not,” Stiles insists.  Not that he knows what Cora thinks Derek is afraid he will be judged by.  She obviously has no idea that he and Derek were partially bonded.  Not to mention that their affair almost cost Stiles his license.

Cora notices the hurt that must be plastered all over Stiles’s face, but it only makes her smile widen.  She punches him on the arm.  “Hey, no need to let my fuckup of a brother get you down.  It’s not personal; trust me.  For someone so determined to act like an alpha, he still gets twisted up by that traditional omega bullshit. My Uncle Peter and his ex-alpha poisoned his mind.  She was...god, she….” She can’t bring herself to talk about it.

“He told me,” Stiles blurts out.

Cora looks surprised by that.  “Then you know all about his stupid martyr complex.  He thinks he doesn’t have the right to take up any space.   God forbid he intrude into people’s lives.  Even if it's life or death, he won't ask for anything unless he's paying you for it.”

Stiles gives a bitter chuckle.  If only Cora knew the depth of it.

“He thinks he’s too broken to deserve to be accommodated, let alone loved.  I told him to ask his friends for help, but that asshole just told me that he doesn’t have any.”

“What, um, what _can_  I do to help him?”  If Derek is hurting…if all this contract bullshit is because something went wrong with the procedure and he doesn’t want Stiles to be stuck with someone who needs help, then Stiles needs to push through it.  That’s one of the choices he talked about.  He has to choose Derek.  

Of course, Derek deserves his freedom to choose.  If he truly doesn’t love Stiles then he's free to go, but he deserves someone who will fight for him.  He doesn’t have to be a martyr.  Neither of them has to be.

Stiles doesn’t care if the most likely bad side-effect of the procedure has happened and Derek is now infertile.  They can adopt kids or have a surrogate.  In fact, if Lydia and Cora are having a baby now, that means the egg extraction must have been successful.  No matter what deal they have, Stiles is sure Lydia will let him have some of the eggs back.  And even though sharing heats was great, Stiles has had enough heat sex to last him a lifetime.  Stiles was fully prepared to live the gay lifestyle with another alpha.  It wouldn’t be a big letdown.  

Cora grins, though her grin still looks a little like a scowl.  Prickliness must run in the family.  “You’re going back to SF after this, right?”

Stiles nods.  

“Great!  You can come visit.  Derek could use the company.  He’s off bedrest for now, but he doesn’t go out much.  He actually misses work.  You’d think GoToMeeting was the holy grail every time he opens it.  He’s a big ball of self-pitying asshole right now, but you care about him.  You wouldn’t mind."

"No, I wouldn't mind," Stiles replies.  He'd give almost anything for the honor of Derek being an ass to him, as a matter of fact.

"Thanks so much, Stiles.  You have no idea how much this helps."  Cora laughs to herself.  "We owe him so much, but, God, I think I’m going crazy trying to entertain his grouchy ass.  And I can’t even imagine what it must be like for Derek.  His main visitors are the twin terror PAs, who I don't even know how he stands, and his lawyer. Jordan comes over sometimes, but there’s only so much even Captain Positive can take.”

Stiles’s heart breaks to hear that Derek is so unhappy and alone.  He can’t imagine him not being able to work.  If he's been too sick to get out of bed, he probably can't even do his crazy exercise routine.  What had he always said?   _I don’t need hobbies.  I have a job._

"And then there's the alpha,” Cora goes on.  “He thinks I don't know, but I saw the bite once when the doctor said that he wasn't allowed to wear makeup.   I don't know if he even ever saw the heat therapist you recommended.  That knotwad, Aiden, swears he did, but Derek pays him enough to lie through his pearly white misogynist teeth. You're a heat therapist.  A bonding bite can't be part of clinical procedure, can it?"

Stiles gulps.  "It is, actually.  It's not used all the time, but a temporary bite can make the omega's heats normalize faster."

"Sure, but it wasn't that.  Whatever happened with this alpha, it was serious.  Derek tries to hide it, but I'm his sister.  I know it's not heat therapy or a one night stand or any of the bullshit he tries to sell me.  He's more broken up about the alpha than all the rest of it.  You don't know if he was seeing anyone, do you?  Do you know who it is?"

Stiles shakes his head.  Now he’s bold face lying, but he’s never had a particular problem with that.  He feels disgusting for it, but a part of him comes alive with the possibility that Derek's pain isn’t just the medical condition.  Maybe Derek is hurting because he misses Stiles as much as Stiles misses him.  And maybe there's an easy solution to both their hurt.  It’s a choice that Stiles has to make for both of them.

“I’d be happy to come visit.”

“But?”

There hadn’t actually been a ‘but.’  Stiles is overjoyed at the mere prospect of seeing Derek.  Still, it makes sense for him to be a little reluctant.  He _should_  be.  He signed a contract, after all.  Not that he believes that Derek would ever actually enforce the penalties in it.

He shrugs, playing nonchalant.  “But he hasn’t tried to contact me for a reason.  I don’t want to be another person in his life who forces Derek to do something he doesn’t want to do or to be someone he’s not.”

Cora rolls her eyes.  “You’re a fucking martyr just like him.  I can tell you want to see him.  Look, come over to our place as _my_  guest.  I won’t tell Derek so he can’t be a bitch about it.  I don’t have my phone, but Lydia has your contact info.  I’ll text you.  Now, it’s cold as all fuck out here.  I can feel my knot shrinking.  Let’s get back inside before your brother pops on the dance floor and this party gets shut down.”

Stiles nods, but doesn’t follow Cora as she ducks inside.

The New England wind is cold.  It runs right through his bones, catching on the hooks and ladders that form the scaffolding of his being.  Something unsettles him.  It is a shiver in the desolate night, like the pause of infinite potential in the primordial abyss, right before the world came rushing in.  

 ****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the epically long delay in posting this. I made the mistake of showing my now-ex this fic and his lack of enthusiasm made me self-conscious about the quality of the writing and the fact that I'm writing fanfic at all. But now I'm as freeeeeeeeeeeee as Robert Pattinson post-Twilight.
> 
> Also, weddings totally are not my thing and never will be. Just the research I had to do to write this is enough wedding planning for my lifetime.
> 
> I promise that the next chapter will come quicker than this one (not that it's a hard promise to keep). We haven't seen Derek in a really long time and I'm starting to miss him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek reunite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to laisserais for whipping me into shape. This chapter was tough to write because Stiles is a much more emotional person than I am.

Stiles isn’t surprised by the Marina District address Cora gives him. Coming from a small town in the woods, Stiles still doesn’t understand why people pay millions of dollars for houses squished together like overdesigned sardines in a can. Derek’s has all the architectural hallmarks of a Spanish-style villa, except for the two massive banks of tinted picture windows that take up most of the street-facing facade, and the fourth story that seems to be made almost entirely of glass. It’s breathtakingly ugly.

Stiles shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie to ward off the early morning chill. The dew on the green seeps up the legs of his jeans, the damp nipping at his ankles. On the water, a tangled mess of masts and rigging rises out of the fog like an enchanted forest. Once the marine layer burns off, he should be able to see the bridge from here, but for now he’s left with wet pants and an empty boulevard. This habitat suits Derek’s personality: rich, brooding, and full of incongruities. For Stiles, it’s the perfect setting for a gallows walk.

Not only is he out of place in this rich neighborhood wearing his ratty jeans and old red hoodie, but he feels even more ridiculous for the bouquet of get well flowers he has sticking out of his backpack. Derek has probably received bouquet after lush bouquet from his fellow corporate hacks.

Stiles isn’t ready. Not that he’ll ever be.

He’s been in denial since the long plane ride home from Boston. There had been training to organize, meetings to attend, whiskey, Doritos, some asshole kid who keeps threatening his sniper win record in Call of Duty. There were just so many things more important than facing the gaping black hole of uncertainty and tremulous hope that was the thought of seeing Derek again. Even today, he ignored his guilt for the entire BART ride, chattered nervously at his indifferent seatmate on the bus, and lingered at the flower shop, wondering if white peonies were the proper flowers to convey ‘I’m sorry for breaking my promise and a contract and doing whatever it is I did to make you never want to see me again, but I heard you were sick and I just can’t stay away, not when there’s even the smallest chance seeing me could help you.’

He’d figured that he’d at least have a moment to linger on the stoop, catch his breath, and figure out what to say. It’s just his luck that Cora flings the door open before he can even knock. Of course she spied him out of those massive windows.  That's probably the point.

She’s wearing tight black compression leggings and a pink Underarmour top. Stiles is here for Derek and loyal to Lydia, but he can’t help but check her out as she turns to usher him inside and up a narrow staircase into the living room.

“You’re all dressed up,” Stiles remarks. He feels his nerves bubble up, gathering in the choking tension at the back of his throat. It’s only years practice that keep the leash on his nervous babbling.

Cora smirks. “I have an exercise date with my sister. Running over in the Presidio.” Stiles is surprised, considering that Derek mentioned that his sisters had a strained relationship. He’s glad that they seem to be getting along better, at least for Derek’s sake. “I don’t know when we’ll be back. If it’s anything like last time...let’s just say we can get competitive.”

Stiles forces a smile. “I doubt that Lydia would be interested in you if you weren’t.”

Cora laughs. “Yeah, well she likes it so long as I’m not competing with _her_. We have different interests now, but we’ll see what happens once I start going to classes next semester.”

Stiles shrugs. “If you’re not gunning for a Field’s Medal, then I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Maybe I am.” Cora manages to keep a straight face for only a few seconds before exploding into a giggle. Stiles laughs along with her, punch drunk and seizing the opportunity to think about anything other than the fact that he’s about to see Derek again for the first time in over half a year.

Cora goes on. “Even though he claims he’s not an invalid, I can’t stand to leave him alone here. He almost _died_.”

He almost died? Stiles’s heart stutters with aimless panic. Derek almost died and Stiles wasn’t there for him. Maybe he shouldn’t have broken the bond. He should have at least waited until after Derek’s procedure.

“Thanks for doing this. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve lasted trapped here with him.”

Stiles winces. He may not be doing Cora much of a favor at all. He doesn’t know how long Derek will allow him to remain, considering he signed a contract promising to stay out of Derek’s life. He wishes he could just ask what happened to Derek, but Cora seems to have assumed that he knows what’s wrong and he doesn’t want to rock the boat. She might ask the wrong questions.

“He’s upstairs in the loft. You don’t have to worry about babysitting him. He’s been good about taking care of himself. So if he blows up at you, you can always come down here and watch TV, just keep an ear out and peek in about every half hour. And don’t let him try to take the stairs. I had an elevator installed and he’ll be a good boy and use it or I’ll tear out his spine.”

Yeah, Cora and Derek are definitely related.

She checks her watch. “Oh, if I leave now, I’ll be able do a warm up. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. There are bathrooms on every level...um...you should drive my Escalade if by some miracle Derek decides he wants to go out. Keys are on the hook in the garage, and you have my cell. Good luck.”

Cora leaves before Stiles can even protest. It’s for the better, he supposes. She doesn’t need to witness the blowout that’s sure to come.

Stiles takes a deep breath and steels himself before ascending the floating staircase. Cora had said that Derek misses his mystery alpha. Even if Derek hates him for overstepping, Stiles has to hope that he will at least be happy to see him. Or maybe the whole contract thing was one of those twisted tests of devotion. Maybe Derek needs Stiles to prove that he’s not just coming back out of obligation.

Or maybe this will end in a lawsuit.

Stiles stumbles up the stairs anyway. The next level is nothing but bedrooms off a central sitting room filled with books, old tomes like the ones Derek often read in bed. Another spiral staircase rises from the middle of the room into the loft above. It might as well be the stairway to heaven.

The first step creaks, loud in the silence.

“Cora, I told you. I’m fine! You don’t need to supervise my exercises.”

Stiles’s heart unclenches just hearing his familiar, exasperated tone. He can’t help the fond smile, reminded of Derek and his irrational love of his sadistic exercise routine. At least he feels well enough for that.

This is it, he supposes. He can’t just stand paralyzed on the bottom step forever. He needs to go up there. He’ll let Derek be mad at him. But also he’ll let him know that Stiles still loves him. No matter what, even if he’s dying, Stiles will be there for him if he needs it.

Still, there’s no doubting the significance of this moment: the pause before the future comes crashing down on him, whatever it may be. He buys himself a few extra seconds removing the slightly-squished bouquet of white roses from his backpack. He holds them in front of himself like a shield as he ascends.

The first thing he notices, other than Derek’s fantastic ass, is the view. At this level, the fog is beginning to clear and Stiles can see the iconic orange of the bridge disappearing into the mist. Derek is silhouetted against it with his arms spread out, palms facing the heavens. Stiles never would have figured he’d find Mr. Burpees-Until-Tears doing _yoga_.

Stiles wants to crack a joke, but his usual cloak of sarcasm is nowhere to be found. It’s just so good to be here with Derek again, to inhale deep and get the first tantalizing taste of his scent, even halfway across the long, open room that spans this entire level.

“Derek,” he whispers in the quiet, reverent as though this glass monstrosity were a church and the bridge his distant altar.

Derek startles, stumbling a little as he breaks his pose. His arms come down to his core as he turns. It’s uncharacteristically clumsy. Stiles almost pokes fun at him, until he gets a good look. Something is wrong.

At first Stiles doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Derek’s body isn’t the perfectly sculpted mass of muscles Stiles remembers. Derek’s tight gray Henley bulges out towards him. But Derek doesn’t have a belly. It’s been less than a year; he can’t have let….

“Stiles?” Derek murmurs. His eyes are wide with shock, but it doesn’t harden into anger like Stiles was expecting. Derek just looks sad...no, he looks resigned.

“You’re pregnant?!” Stiles shouts. He can’t believe it. Of all the things he expected, it was never this. He imagined so many things before coming here: a car accident, cancer, Derek bedridden, barren, moved on with some other alpha. The gap between expectation and reality makes the world stutter, like a video game with a slow connection. Or maybe that’s the sudden lack of oxygen reaching Stiles’s brain.

Derek nods, even though the massive belly makes the question rhetorical. His right arm twitches towards Stiles, but he doesn’t reach out. Stiles is glued to the spot. He doesn’t dare get any closer.

“You’re pregnant?” Quieter this time. Stiles has lost the bouquet somewhere. It was in his hand a second ago.

Derek nods again. He watches Stiles the way a dog watches a rolled up newspaper.

Derek is pregnant. He can’t be pregnant. It makes no sense. Stiles is poised on the precipice of terrible revelation, but no matter how he tries to stay in this moment of blissful ignorance, he can’t quiet the whirlwind of his hyperactive, deductive brain.

Cora and Lydia are expecting a baby. Stiles assumed that Cora was the one carrying, but obviously Derek didn’t donate his eggs. Something went wrong and now he’s the surrogate.

“But why--” He could still have met Stiles a month ago. A good deed for his gay sister...Derek must know that Stiles wouldn’t care.

Except…. “Oh my god.”

The egg extraction was supposed to be six and a half months ago and that isn’t a six and a half month belly.

“It’s mine.” It’s not a question, just a breathless fact. He’s numb. He’s could’ve lost his arms and a leg for all he’s connected to his body. He has a baby. Derek is carrying his baby.

“They belong to Cora and Lydia,” Derek insists.

“They?” Stiles asks on autopilot. His mind is reeling. Derek is pregnant. Stiles got Derek pregnant.

“Twins.” Derek starts to smile, but halfway there, his face freezes into a gritted pantomime of a proud opa. “My sister and her fiance’s twins.”

Okay. If it’s twins, Derek can be carrying big. Maybe they are Cora and Lydia’s and Derek just didn’t want to see Stiles. It hurts, but Stiles could almost believe it.

Except Derek’s guilty expression belies that theory.

This isn’t a romantic comedy misunderstanding where Derek goes to the wrong place, or gets hit by a car running to the Empire State Building, or hides his emotions out of cutesy insecurity. Derek didn’t just noshow their meeting. He sent his fucking lawyer. And now he’s using the same bullshit doublespeak to avoid the question.

If those are his kids, Stiles deserves to know. Maybe Derek could have hid it forever if his sister wasn’t dating one of Stiles’s best friends, but now that Stiles is here...Derek can’t just stand there, _pregnant_ and expect Stiles won’t demand answers. “Okay, so legally _they_ belong to Cora and Lydia, but genetically…. Just so we’re being absolutely clear: do they carry half my genes?” Stiles snaps.

“Technically…” Derek starts, but the words die on his breath when he catches Stiles’s glare. “I’m sorry,” he admits. “They were conceived with your sperm.” Some honesty, at last.

“They’re mine.” Stiles whispers. He should feel different, victorious. Derek just confirmed that he’s going to be an apa. He should be jumping with joy: there are two little beings inside his omega’s belly that will look like him and act like him and carry his legacy forward in time. But he’s not. Derek has ruined the happy occasion.

“Genetically they are yours,” Derek specifies. He’s wearing the same defiant expression he had when he first came into the clinic, demanding Stiles (and only Stiles) see to him immediately. “Not that it matters whose they are,” he mumbles.

“Not that it matters? How could it not….” They spent months spending every spare moment together. They bonded over baseball and movies and Derek’s terrible exercises. Stiles learned how to do a _pushup_ for Derek. He told Derek his hopes and dreams, exposed his fears, asked Derek to do to him what no omega ever had. And Derek...Stiles helped him heal, damnit! The last time they saw each other, Derek was mobilizing his army of lawyers so that they could stay together. He was begging Stiles to bite him and solidify their bond. And now they’re having kids together. How could it possibly not matter?

“You know what? Screw you, Derek!” Stiles can’t think beyond the anger that churns through him like the violence at the heart of the sun. How dare Derek keep this from him? Those are his kids!

“You already did.” Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe it’s the god’s honest truth masquerading as one, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s done with the clever banter. Derek is deliberately keeping Stiles from his children. He doesn’t _deserve_ to lighten the mood, not even a little.

“I’m going to be an apa and you think that doesn’t matter?” Stiles can barely wrap his head around it. Derek might be giving the kids to Cora, but he’s carrying them inside his body. Stiles refuses to believe that he feels nothing. “Like that doesn’t change my entire fucking world?!”

“No!” Derek looks up again. His eyes are blazing. Stiles is surprised they haven’t turned red with the rage he swears he can see building beneath Derek’s usually aloof facade. “It doesn’t change anything! That’s the point. They have your genes, but you are not their apa. You signed away parental rights to any children that might accidentally result from my treatment. It was in the clinic’s contract and in our agreement. You reaffirmed it when you took the check from Marin.”

Even beneath the gruffness and the anger, it sounds like Derek has practiced saying a legal memo out loud. Stiles hates him for it.

“But I didn’t cash it!” Stiles shouts. He hadn’t been able to use a penny, once he got home and realized what he’d done. He’d decided that he would honor the agreement not to see Derek, but he wouldn’t take Derek’s money to stay away. That has to earn him something.

Derek looks taken aback, but then he shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t matter.  It was a deposit into an escrow account, not a physical check and you signed. You accepted the contracts.  All of them. My legal team will bury you, Stiles.” His eyes soften with the plea, “take the money. Use it to help people who need it. Don’t try to fight this. You don’t know how ruthless Marin can be. I’m sure she never actually destroyed the heat therapy contract or the medical evidence that you bonded me….” he trails off.

Except it isn’t all the doing of the bloodsucking lawyer. Marin may be the messenger, but it’s Derek doing the threatening. His wealth and power and absolute comfort wielding them mean that Stiles has been at Derek’s whim this entire time. Only his blind determination to see Derek as nothing more than a victim has stopped him from seeing it. How could he be so stupid?

Now, with his eyes open, Stiles feels weak, jelly-legged with the revelation that he might be Derek’s victim as much as Derek is his. When Derek wanted Stiles, he’d do anything to get him. And now that Stiles is not what he wants, Derek just throws a legal team and more money at him, like he’s a defunct subsidiary a few zeros from being written off the balance sheets, not a person he once loved.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Stiles seethes. “You don’t get to hide behind money and lawyers and all that bullshit! It isn’t Marin suing your former employee. It’s you talking to me, another human being whose life you hold in your hands.”

“It isn’t my decision! I’m just enforcing what you decided when you signed the contract. You’re a senior heat therapist. You’ve been through all the training. You’ve _given_ the training. You’ve always known that one of your sessions could result in pregnancy. You’re the one who waived your parental rights.” Derek continues, bitterly, “Were you just not thinking? Too eager to fuck all the willing omegas to consider the consequences? It wouldn’t surprise me, based on what I know about your professionalism.”

Yes, Stiles could have been a professional and stopped it at any time, but it was _Derek_ who was the architect of every slippery compromise on the slide down this slope. Derek is the one who insisted on breaking each rule designed to protect them. Derek didn’t disclose his potentially disqualifying personal connection to Stiles. Derek came for his initial consult while already in heat. He convinced Stiles to break protocol and help him while Stiles was still APEing. He wouldn’t risk not having another therapist, so he threw money at the problem until he could have Stiles to himself. He used money to worm his way into Stiles's business, even isolated him from his friends and colleagues, like Erica said. He begged to not use the safety protocols for the bite and he covered it up afterwards. Hell, he was willing to dump cash on the pile for Stiles’s company so he'd stay dependent forever.

“You were there too!” Stiles shouts. “We broke the rules together and we should deal with the consequences _together_.”

Everything, from the rigid set of his shoulders to the way he narrows his eyes suggests that Derek doesn’t think Stiles is a worthy partner to deal with the consequences of anything. A part of him, Stiles realizes, has probably always felt superior. While Stiles was seeing Derek as the sick patient to his authoritative therapist, Derek was seeing Stiles as the trivial employee to his powerful industrialist. And, judging by the fact that he’d rather have the twin terrors and his lawyer than actual friends, that’s clearly how Derek likes it.

“You’ve been lying to me this entire time!” Stiles clenches his fists. He wants to shake them. He wants to shake _Derek_. If knowledge is power, then Derek has all of it and Stiles has none. “You’ve known everything there is to know about me and kept me from knowing you! That’s not fair!”

“I wanted to tell you! I tried! You were the one who wanted to follow protocol. You didn’t want to know.” Stiles can’t be bothered to dissect the bitterness in Derek’s tone. Not getting Derek’s name was the only time Stiles ignored Derek’s recklessness in favor of doing the right thing. He can’t regret that, no matter how much grief it caused.

“We should have followed the protocol! Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Maybe, if Derek had introduced himself as Cora’s brother, Stiles could have assigned him to another therapist. They could have been real friends first, then lovers. Maybe they’d be engaged now, expecting children that were planned-for and wanted. Stiles could have been at the first ultrasound, talked baby names, soothed Derek through his morning sickness. Derek robbed them of that. He’s _still_ robbing them. “You,” Stiles jabs a finger in Derek’s direction, “owe me an explanation. At least!”

“Fine.” Derek runs his fingers through his unruly hair, longer now, like Scott’s. There are dark circles under his eyes. His belly is round, but his arms and legs are too thin. He looks sickly, exasperated, but still defiant. “If I tell you the whole story, then will you leave me alone?”

Stiles can’t make that promise. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares.

Derek rolls his eyes. When he talks, his speech is clipped, devoid of inflection, like he’s relating market data, not describing things that actually happened to him. “After you left, I got sicker. Cora flew out to help me.” He doesn’t say that it should have been Stiles there, supporting him. He doesn’t need to for Stiles to feel the guilt. “We thought it was side-effects from the hormone injections, but it was extreme morning sickness. The injections just made it worse.”

“Oh god,” Stiles gulps. He imagines Derek curled up on his bathroom floor, sick as a dog and missing his alpha. The guilt is choking, but so is the anger. How was he supposed to help if Derek wouldn’t fucking _ask_? All this time, Derek never needed a contract, he just needed to ask and Stiles would have moved the world.

“I never lied to you about the pregnancy,” Derek pleads, as though keeping such a precious secret isn’t basically the same as a lie. “I didn’t find out until when the extraction was scheduled. My blood test showed pregnancy. Then the ultrasound--” Derek trails off, the only crack in his stoic facade. He rubs his belly, distracting them both for a moment. “The doctors said that we must have damaged your VDD back when you broke your wrist. We should have had a doctor check it. I was taking hormones to enhance my fertility for the egg extraction. It was inevitable I would get pregnant. It was an accident.”

It all makes sense, of course. If Stiles had still been at the clinic, Deaton would have checked his VDD routinely as part of his monthly exam. Hell, if he and Kira hadn’t had such a big falling out, she could have done it. But Stiles could care less about the medical reasoning. It’s just another smokescreen to avoid talking about the real question.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I know I said we needed to break the bond, but you’re pregnant with my kids. That’s obviously more important. I’m your alpha. I would have taken care of you!” According to Cora, Derek almost died. Why wouldn’t he call for Stiles then? Is he that prideful?

“You’re not my alpha. You broke our bond. You chose to leave me.”

That stings. Even though the entire goal of this tragic experiment was to give Derek a choice, he never expected to hear Derek say those words, especially now that he feels the opposite with every fiber of his being.

“I came back! I was always going to come back. You know why we had to separate, but it was temporary.”

Stiles stalks towards Derek, alpha instincts going wild with the new scent he detects beneath Derek’s usual homey musk. There’s the lush, sweet smell of his pregnancy, like angel food cake or marzipan, something rich and enticing. But beneath even that, there’s the perfectly balanced mix of the two of them, better even than the heady heat-mad elixir.

Stiles might as well be high with it. His vision goes at once sharp and fuzzy. The smell expands through his senses like a smoke cloud. He needs his omega to stop delaying, stop lying, and just surrender to it. Those are _Stiles's_ children and Derek is _Stiles’s_ omega. The smell doesn’t lie.

“You’ve had all the information to contact me at any time. You could even have waited for our meeting. You know I wanted children with you! I wouldn’t have rejected you. You’re mine!”

He reaches out to grab Derek and just make him see, but Derek takes a step back. He cradles his belly protectively. Let him be scared, Stiles thinks viciously, though he immediately feels guilty. It isn’t Derek’s fault that his ex was abusive or that his trauma causes him to act out. But Stiles is done coddling him. Thus far, all his sympathy has earned him is the honor of being manipulated. Derek doesn’t get to keep on making bad decisions that hurt everyone around him just because someone hurt him. He has to take responsibility at some point. And the people around him have to stop enabling him so he can change. Stiles is just so fucking done.

“I’m sorry.” Derek looks down at the floor at Stiles’s feet. He folds his arms over his chest, on top of his baby bulge. It’s the most submissive Stiles has ever seen him look. Just like that, his rage and righteousness deflates. Derek isn’t meant to be a little submissive thing, dressed in dainty clothes that expose his vulnerable neck. He’s meant to be strong, powerful, a little grumpy, ready to protect Stiles as much as Stiles wants to protect him.

“No, I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Stiles feels suddenly nauseous. He stumbles back until he’s almost at the top of the staircase. This is what Derek has been running from all this time. Stiles still doesn’t know what exactly happened with his ex, but he can imagine that an alpha willing to induce a forced heat probably got angry and possessive...and there’s the miscarriage in his medical file. This must be his worst nightmare happening all over again.

Derek might have the wealth and power to break all the rules, but what good has it done him? It’s not something to resent. It’s something to pity. It’s what let him be reclusive enough to avoid therapy, stay in his ex-wife’s maximum security orbit, pass for an alpha instead of dealing with how vulnerable his heats make him feel. How many friendships has Derek missed because he has employees that are paid to care? How many people have given up on him because he sends an attorney instead of just talking?

Derek looks up just long enough to see the angry expression on Stiles’s face before shrinking into himself further. Never mind that Stiles is no longer angry at him, just angry on his behalf.

Derek has a right to be suspicious. Stiles is still here, after all, _obsessed_ even after Derek made it clear that he is not welcome. Even after he promised Derek (and himself) that he wouldn’t. But the fact remains: the man Stiles loves is willing to throw thousands of dollars and an entire legal team at him to keep him from seeing their kids.

How can he work through that? Derek has all the cards and Stiles has nothing. And even though Derek is ripping his heart out, Stiles still loves him. If he could only make Derek see what they could have. They could have everything if Derek would just _listen_.

Derek takes a step towards him, a concerned look on his face. “Stiles, you’re crying.”

Stiles is surprised to find that he’s right. Tears are streaming silently down his face. The mere realization of that fact opens the floodgates. Stiles reaches for the anger, because at least anger would be better than this choking futility. Derek holds all the cards and there’s nothing Stiles can do.

Stiles looks through the tears blurring his vision to find that Derek’s eyes are shining too. He isn’t crying, though. Of course he isn’t, because if he cared about how Stiles felt he wouldn’t be doing this. Stiles turns away, wiping his eyes on his flannel shirt and continuing to poorly hide his sickly-hot face in the crook of his elbow. He cries until he nearly chokes on his own liquefied snot. He sobs, gasping and hiccuping when the pain abates enough for him to remember to breathe. He must look like an idiot, but he can’t stand to look at Derek and his jutting belly and his pitying expression. He melts into a crouch so he can hide his leaking face behind his knees. In the dark behind his closed eyes, he can dissolve into his grief.

Stiles is collapsing under the weight of these past months. First saying goodbye to Derek, the chemical miasma of the bond breaking, giving the person he loved the chance to make a choice that might hurt him more than anything had ever hurt before. Then, fighting to become a better person, fighting to become independent so that Derek would have someone good to come back to. He’d taken a long look at himself as a son, as a friend, and as a heat therapist and he’d _changed._ He’d stopped pretending to be strong and he’d let the world in, all for Derek. Then finding that it didn’t matter: Derek wasn’t coming back. Then working, building something, starting over, figuring out how to live without the dream that he and Derek would be together one day....

There’s only so much transformation one person can take. Stiles feels like a piece of useless scrap, melted and remade again and again until he’s stretched too thin, his internal bonds too weak to maintain his shape.

Stiles has no idea how long he cries. He only becomes aware of his surroundings when he feels the movement of the hair on top of his head as a hand strokes through it. He can’t connect that caring touch with the reality that Derek doesn’t want him, would do anything to keep him away. Instead, he just lets the hand slide down to cup his chin. He lets it guide him to standing and he lets himself be pulled into strong arms.

Derek’s belly is taut and awkward between them, but Stiles doesn’t care. He downs gulp after gulp of Derek’s scent, like an addict huffing every desperate high. He noses at the side of Derek’s neck over the faded mark of his bonding scar. He itches to sink his teeth in again and renew it. Except he doesn’t need to when Derek’s already been marked by him in the most definitive way - bearing his children.

Derek doesn’t try to shush him or keep him from getting his snot and tears all over the clean cotton of his Henley. He just cradles the back of Stiles’s neck in one big hand, rubbing his back with the other. Sandwiched between the soothing rhythm of Derek’s touch and the even cadence of his breathing, Stiles feels his heartbeat slow. Air flows. His tears dry cool on his flushed face.

That’s when he feels it. Something nudges him through the stretched fabric of Derek’s shirt. Stiles untangles himself to look down. He expects to see the outline of a foot pressing into Derek’s skin, but there’s nothing. His world narrows to the tiny patch of skin where his own child had reached out to touch him. He cups the bulge, trying to chase the connection.

He feels it one more time, a quick flutter before Derek gently grasps his wrist and moves his hand away. Stiles can’t help the sharp whine of protest. It’s his baby. If Derek won’t let them meet, the least he can do is give him this.

“But he’s kicking,” Stiles protests.

“She. That one’s a girl.”

“She,” Stiles breathes, in awe. He has a daughter. His daughter just touched him for the first time.

Derek takes a step back, then takes a few more for good measure. “Try not to get attached.”

Just like that, the magic of the moment is broken. “Yeah, like that’s possible,” Stiles snorts. “That’s my _daughter_ you’ve got in there. She’s half me. How am I not supposed to get attached?” He’s empty in the wake of rage and sorrow and wonder. His soul reaches out for something, anything to guide him out of this terrible moment.

Derek is insistent. “They’re supposed to train you for that. You signed the contract.” It keeps going back to the contract, Stiles realizes. Professional relationships, training, contracts, lawyers, those aren’t just Derek’s weapons, they’re his retreats, his pacifiers. He loves his work because he gets to not just pretend he’s an alpha, but pretend that everything is a rational, emotionless, economic transaction. “Why are you so upset?” Derek asks. He looks genuinely baffled.

“Because….” Fuck. Why is he so upset? He’d actually thought long and hard about the consequences before he became a heat therapist. He was much more worried about getting an STD than getting some omega knocked up. “Because it isn’t just some random client. It’s you. Derek, the bond’s worn off. But I can say without a doubt that I still love you.”

He reaches out for his omega, but Derek turns away. He looks out the big picture windows towards the sea and the bridge towering in the distance. The marine layer has cleared, but the water is still. The dull blue reflects off Derek’s stormy eyes, framing the entire scene like a picture of a bygone time, the omega on the widow’s walk, pregnant and scanning the horizon.

“Those are _our_ children that you’re carrying. They’re part you and because of that, I love them, too.”

Derek lets the silence hang, a masochistic void in the air. His face is inscrutable, as always. “They aren’t mine either,” he finally answers.

“They’re inside you, Derek. They’re yours.” Stiles gestures to the way Derek is delicately cradling his stomach. “You can’t tell me you feel nothing for them.” Stiles can’t imagine carrying around two lives for however many months and not growing attached.

“I don’t feel anything. I’m just numb. I don’t love them. I don’t want them. I remember, with Jennifer, I wanted to have as many children as she’d give me. Now…this isn’t my body. This isn’t who I am.”

Stiles gapes. He shivers with sympathy. Even after all the improvements Derek made with sex and therapy, he’s still fundamentally detached from his omega body. It hurts to realize that Derek still has so far to go, but it’s something Stiles can work with. He knows that Derek is insecure. He needs to be coaxed out of his trauma and Stiles is more than capable of doing it. “That happens to lots of people. There’s a disconnect, but once you give birth, your instincts will--”

“My instincts are that I want them to be happy and loved,” Derek replies. “Cora and Lydia can give them that.”

“So can we! I can imagine how scary it was before, when I was gone. You were pregnant and alone, but you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here. I want to be involved. Even if you don’t want to be with me, I can be an awesome alpha co-parent.” If Gwyneth Paltrow can do it, so can Stiles. “You and I can be friends and we can make a great plan to raise them. I can even do most of the child rearing. You can still work and just see them on weekends or however much you would’ve seen them with Cora. That way you don’t have to ask so much of your sister, because I know for a fact she and Lydia did not plan on having kids so soon.”

Derek frowns. He massages his lower back until Stiles helps him waddle over to a plush green couch with the same overzealous application of pillows that Derek’s designer clearly favors. “I didn’t ask. Cora did.”

“What?”

“Cora asked me to have them for her. I owe her.”

“You don’t. You really don’t.” Nobody owes anybody else their firstborn children. Not even Rumplestiltskin could cash in on that. “Derek, if you change your mind, I’m sure you could still donate your eggs and I’m sure Cora and Lydia would be fine with that.”

“I’m not doing that to her. I’ve already hurt her so much that I’ll never be able to make it up to her. I’ll do whatever I have to. I’d sacrifice anything to give Cora this. Don’t you get it? I already sacrificed you!” he bellows. His anger is undercut by the fact that he immediately has to rub his belly to soothe the two lives inside.

“Me?” Stiles knows Cora is more important to Derek, but honestly, without the bond, how big a sacrifice could he possibly be?

Derek pales. He looks down at his belly, but even the twins can’t save him from Stiles’s scrutiny. “I would have met you that day. I wanted us to work. But you would have convinced me to keep them and I couldn’t risk it. I love you too much and--”

“I love you too,” Stiles immediately replies. After Derek no-showed their meeting, he thought he’d never hear those words again or even get a chance to say them. The sudden release of tension makes him feel as though he could float away.

He leans in. It’s awkward with Derek’s stomach between them, but the kiss is gentle, sweet in a way that their kisses never were. They’re finally free from the bond. But it’s bittersweet, because they’ve already hurt each other so much and, Stiles realizes, they’ll have to hurt each other more.

“I thought about you every day,” Derek whispers. “I watched all the Giants games. I imagined that you were watching too. We were watching together.”

Stiles feels a sharp pang of guilt. He’d been so busy working that, before the pennant, he’d only caught a few games here and there. He checked the stats constantly, though, and watched the playoffs. He wanted the Giants to be in the series when he and Derek reunited. It was a typical baseball fan’s dream, to imagine kissing the omega he loves as his team wins the World Series.

“I thought about you, too,” Stiles replies. “Even after I signed the contract, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. At Scott and Allison’s wedding, I kept picturing you, wondering what it would’ve been like if I were marrying you. Boyd accused me of making my best apa’s toast about our breakup.  He was probably right.”

Derek kisses Stiles again, but when he pulls back, his jaw is tight. It’s the look that says he’s going to force it, whether that’s making Stiles do another squat or insisting that they break all the rules in the heat therapy handbook. He’s going to tell Stiles that they still can’t see each other.

“Derek, I’m right here. You don’t have to miss me. I love you and you love me. It’s not too late. Please, let’s try to make this work.”

Derek doesn’t move for a long time. Stiles ends up jiggling his leg out of nerves, only for Derek to grab it. At least he’s still strong enough to bruise Stiles’s thigh.

“We can try,” Derek eventually forces out.

They can try. Stiles can have Derek and they can raise the twins together and Stiles’s heart is full to bursting. He’s flung himself half into Derek’s lap before he registers that Derek is still talking.

“Stiles! Stiles, hold on. There’s a condition.”

“That’s okay. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

Derek slaps Stiles on the back of the head. “You can’t just agree without hearing what it is. Idiot. No wonder you signed that contract without even reading it.”

“Fine. What’s the condition?”

“The twins are still Cora’s. You will still see them if you and I stay together, but you will never tell them or anybody else that you are their apa. Not even Lydia.”

Stiles wants to say yes. He wants to leap off that cliff like he dove off so many others over the years. But this is an adult decision, a decision for people older than he feels. It’s his kids’ future and he can’t just bargain it away, no matter how much he wants to be with Derek. He truly believes that love isn’t just about pheromones and passion. It’s about choosing the people you love over and over again. If he makes this choice for his kids, what does it say about how much he loves them? What if they find out and have to live with the knowledge that their own apa didn’t love them enough to fight for them?

“I have to think about it,” Stiles finally says.

“Of course.” Derek nods. He seems disappointed, even though he must have been expecting that answer. After a long pause, Derek asks, “Do you want to stay? We can catch up. I can finally tell you what I do for a living.”

“I’m sure it’s endlessly boring and I’m better off not knowing,” Stiles laughs. “I know how much you use spreadsheets.”

Derek pouts, but he scoots closer, grabbing hold of Stiles’s hand. “We don’t have to talk. Just stay.”

Stiles knows he shouldn’t. He should get the hell out so he can make a decision with a clear head, but he missed Derek and Cora doesn’t want him left alone.

They sit in silence until one of the babies pushes on Derek’s bladder. Then they relocate downstairs to the living room. Derek puts on A League of Their Own, like a good omegaist baseball fan. While they excitedly parrot “There’s no crying in baseball!” Derek ends up pressed against Stiles’s side. Before long, a back rub leads to Derek resting between Stiles’s legs with Stiles’s hands cupping his stomach.

Tears spring to his eyes, not because Douggie Hinson is struggling with his relationship to his little sister, Kit, or the fact that sixty years later there are still only 10 omega players in the major leagues. His children are right here, nestled safely inside his omega. How is he supposed to be unmoved by that? But he finally has Derek in his arms, willing and ready to build a life together. It’s a terrible choice.  Everyone loses no matter what.

Derek’s ridiculous nautically-themed living room feels suddenly claustrophobic. The rich wood floor might be a ship’s deck. The tastefully suggestive knot artwork might hold down a massive sail. They might be floating out into that vast sea without a rudder.

“I should go,” Stiles says, once the credits roll. “Cora will be back soon and you’ll be okay until then, right?”

Derek nods. His face is utterly blank. Maybe he’s caught in the same numb moment Stiles is: not allowing himself to feel because feeling means giving in to futile hope, doomed to despair.

After getting promising to call, Stiles ambles out the front door and across the Marina Green towards the Bridge instead of back towards the bus station. He imagines Derek watching him from the tinted windows of his modern widow’s walk. He doesn’t turn back, despite the temptation.

As Stiles makes his way further down the coast he suddenly finds himself on a beach.  The sand is a muddy gray-brown. Seagulls and herons loiter on the grass. Stiles takes his shoes off and walks in the wet sand by the shore. It’s sharp with recent erosion, wet and sticky. It reminds him of where he is: stuck in this uncomfortable moment on the brink of an awful decision. The Bridge hovers in the distance, a beacon with the same romantic lure that it’s had for nearly a century. Stiles could walk until he meets the throng of tourists at its entrance. He could repeat the same brooding lover’s walk that thousands of other lovers have made over history. He can add his tears to the weight of tears and joy that must be welded into every joint of that colossal structure.

But he won’t.

Stiles reaches a shaking hand down into his pocket, deliberately half unaware but still fully determined, like looking at something out of the corner of the eye. He hasn’t made a decision. The future is fuzzy. His actions may have consequences, but he won’t look at them. Nothing needs to happen beyond this moment of non-choice.

The phone rings in his ear like the clang of a church bell.

“Stiles, this had better be important. I have a line of students outside my office and I don’t know how long my door can hold them.”

“Your children are my children,” Stiles says before his better sense can stop him.

Lydia gasps. A tourist takes a photo. Stiles steps on a piece of smooth sea glass. Gulls squawk. The sun is warm on his skin. And the city goes about its business, oblivious to Stiles’s betrayal.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek try to make things work.

“Stiles,” Lydia sighs. She sounds tired, too stressed out to bother hiding it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

His hands shake and his palms sweat. He wants to stay in this suspended moment on the cusp of betrayal, but Stiles knows he has to answer. He can’t risk never knowing his own children. And this is Lydia, his strawberry blonde goddess, his first love, the one who held him when Heather died, the one who stood tall with him as the two lonely queers at senior prom. Even with the years and the distance between them, he can’t keep something like this from her.

“Your twins, the ones that Cora’s brother is carrying? They’re mine. I’m the alpha Derek was seeing.”

The line is silent. Stiles throws a pebble at a seagull, desperate for anything to distract him from the abyss opened up by her pause. Lydia has his future in her hands and that winged asshole doesn’t even do him the courtesy of pretending to be intimidated. He throws another pebble, which earns an angry squawk as the thing trundles closer to nip at a dropped sandwich wrapper. Great, he’s not just powerless against Derek’s legal team, now he’s powerless against birds a fraction of his size.

“Lydia?” he finally asks. “Lydia? Are you still there?”

“Yes, Stiles, I’m still here,” she snaps. “I heard you. That’s a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” 

In his aimless stomp down the beach, he comes across a log of driftwood and sits down. Lydia is almost never speechless, but when she is, Stiles knows that it is the calm before the storm. He may as well brace for impact.

“What do you want?” Lydia finally asks. It’s quiet, deadly calm.

That isn’t what Stiles was expecting. He doesn’t know what he expected, considering how little he thought before making the call, but it wasn’t for her to put the ball in his court.

“What do you mean?”

“Obviously, you and Derek had a falling out and you’re coming to me to do something about it.”

“No, I just wanted to tell you. I--”

“So you don’t want your kids?” she sounds accusatory now. Stiles supposes she has every right to be. Doesn’t stop it from pushing his buttons, though. Lydia is an expert at that.

“Of course I do!” He wants his children desperately. It’s the alpha instinct, but it’s also the fact that he’d felt them pushing up against his palm through _Derek’s_ belly. They’re real and they’re here and his love for Derek is multiplied in them. “But it’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she parries. “Tell me what to do, Stiles, and I’ll support you with it.”

“Wait. What?” He can’t believe it. He isn’t ready to make a choice. She can’t just put this on him like she has no horse in the race. “Derek said Cora asked him for the kids. The two of you want to raise them. You can’t be okay with whatever I want you to do.” 

“I said I’d support you,” she snaps, “not that I’d do whatever you wanted without consulting my girlfriend. And Cora isn’t trying to steal Derek’s children away from their parents. She’d be thrilled if her clueless dingbat of a brother had any intention of raising them himself.”

“But he said she asked him for them.”

Lydia sighs her ‘why am I constantly surrounded by idiots’ sigh. “Your little omega misheard. Or at least he misunderstood. Cora asked him to have them rather than terminate the pregnancy. They’ve lost most of their family and she couldn’t stand for Derek to get rid of them when she and I were planning on using Derek’s eggs for surrogacy anyway.”

“So she isn’t attached?” Stiles asks. His heart flutters with hope. He tries to shove that hope back down, but it stays firmly afloat.

“Oh, she’s attached to seeing them born, but whether as aunt or ama, it doesn’t matter. I think she’s hoping that Derek will want to be more involved. That’s why we’re moving to California, despite how incredibly inconvenient it is.”

Lydia has talked a lot about Cora and Derek and Stiles and, conspicuously, not about her own needs and requirements. “What about you? Do you want the babies?”

“I want what Cora wants,” she says firmly.

“But?”

“But this situation is not ideal.” That’s Lydia code for the rare times when she hates something but doesn’t want to just come out and say so. “The dream scenario would be Derek donating eggs, fertilizing them with my sperm and me carrying them, as soon as I have tenure. Did you know they don’t grant maternity leave for pregnant alphas? You get however much you would get for alphagenitry, _and_ it’s not illegal to use it as a reason to deny tenure. Isn’t that barbaric?”

“Yes, it is,” Stiles replies, because he knows when Lydia is fishing for mindless agreement.

“Barring that option, I’d rather use Cora’s sperm to fertilize a stranger’s egg and carry it myself, or vice versa. That way we’d both have a significant biological connection to the child.”

“So you’re not happy with adopting the twins?” Protective rage shoots through him. He loves Lydia like a sister, but if she’s not committed to treating his kids right, then he has no choice but to take them.

“No, happiness is not the word,” she counters. “I think we’re doing something good and I will find a way to love them. But this is one of those things where people tell you to make lemonade when you’d really rather have a gorgeous bartender serve up a martini. You’d be doing me a favor if you take them off our hands.”

“What about Cora? What if Derek won’t be involved? She wants them to be Hales, doesn’t she?” Stiles doesn’t know if Derek will want anything to do with the babies or with Stiles once he finds out that Stiles is talking to Lydia. 

“She’d fight a stranger, but if _you_ wanted to take full custody, I could convince her. The question is: do you want that?”

“What? Lydia, they’re my kids!”

“Yes, but twins are a lot of work. You have a new company. You grew up with a single apa for a good part of your life. You know how difficult it can be. Is that what you want?”

Trust Lydia to cut right down to the heart of it, with a butter knife. Stiles takes a second to hate her for it. What if Derek won’t be involved at all? Stiles can’t exactly force him to be an opa. And Stiles is still a kid himself in so many ways. Can he really raise two of them?

She’s right: being the son of a single apa wasn’t easy. He remembers long nights staying up waiting for his apa to come home from shift unharmed, burning himself on the stove trying to cook dinner, doing his homework in an interrogation room. He barely saw his apa. He hated him sometimes. He grew up too fast and in some ways he stopped growing. He misses his oma still. And his apa, one of the strongest alphas Stiles has ever known, had practically collapsed under the weight of just one stupid hyperactive kid. Twins must be even harder. “You wouldn’t mind taking only one?” he says before thinking about it.

Which, with Lydia, is a huge mistake. “What? This isn’t the Parent Trap, Stiles. Grow up.”

“Fine. You’re right. It is a lot of work. But I can’t just sit around and watch my kids be raised by somebody else, even if that person is you. I love you and you’d probably be a way better ama than I could be an apa. It’s all just so fucked up. Derek doesn’t want them to ever know they’re ours! I mean, maybe they’d know that Derek played some part, but he said that if I get back together with him, I can never tell them. I’m not even supposed to tell you, but obviously…god, I’m tangling that up before we even get off the ground. I fucking suck.”

Lydia blows out an exasperated sigh. “You don’t fucking suck, Stiles. I’m glad you told me. I’m going to tell Cora, but we won’t tell Derek yet. You have to make a decision. If it comes down to it, you might have to decide between Derek and your kids. And whatever you decide, it has to stick. I won’t let those kids be ripped from a stable home because you two idiots change your minds.”

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair again. He must look like a crazy person, sitting on a driftwood log and practically vibrating out of his skin. No wonder people are steering clear. He sticks his tongue out at a particularly uptight tourist who hustles past.

“I can’t decide, Lydia! I love Derek and I want to do what’s best for him, but I don’t fucking know what that is! I’ve tried everything. I tip-toed around his trauma. I let him do whatever the hell he wanted. I forced us apart out of pure righteousness. And now I’m talking to you, even though he told me not to.”

“Well, that was obviously the right thing,” Lydia replies dismissively. “You’d clearly be lost without me.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I want to respect his wishes. But they’re my _kids_. And I’m not sure he really doesn’t want them. But how can I be sure? Every time I think I have him figured out, I end up in the ER or I ditch my _pregnant_ omega at the worst possible time.”

Up until recently, Stiles had never questioned himself. He didn’t stop to think about whether looking for dead bodies in the woods was a smart idea, or to plan an exit strategy for how to get off the top of the giant knotted dick float at Pride. But now that he’s been forced to reevaluate both his professionalism and his closest relationships, he finally understands that he doesn’t have a fucking clue. How many things does he get wrong all the time and just not notice? He can’t trust his instincts. And he definitely can’t trust Derek’s own self-awareness.

“They’re his own flesh and blood. He’s carrying them. And he likes kids. He wanted a whole brood of them before we separated. I can’t force him to raise them. I can’t take away his choice like the alphas who mistreated him. But I also can’t trust that he knows his own feelings on the subject. Denial is his drug of choice, but he can change his mind. I got him to come around on heat therapy: from not wanting to be touched to falling in love with his heat therapist.”

“Yeah, that’s a real triumph.” Stiles can practically hear the eyeroll. “Sounds more like the subject of a lawsuit than a gold star relationship accomplishment.”

Stiles chokes a little, because, yeah, it had almost been a lawsuit. But Derek has _always_ protested too much, about wanting an alpha at all, about not wanting to be anything other than the stereotypical Victor’s Secret yoga bunny, and about not wanting Stiles back in his life. The more Derek fights something, the more likely it is to be the thing he wants most in the world. “The point is that he’s in therapy-therapy for some serious shit. Once he gets better, he’ll see that this is just his emotional baggage talking.”

“And if he never gets better? You can’t just take in whatever feral animal you think needs your help and expect to tame it in your image. Cora’s told me about Derek. He’s come a long way since you met him, but he has a long way to go. Recovery doesn’t have a timeline. You can’t force it. Cora taught me that. You can’t bet on him coming around in the next few months, or _ever_.”

“I can’t just give up hope that he _will_ want them!” Stiles protests. He’s always ignored the adage that he can’t have his cake and eat it too. And in this case, the lure of the perfect future is irresistible. “It’ll hurt him if I end up breaking up with him and take the babies, but I can’t not _try_ to see if we can have it all.”

“Maybe you don’t decide just yet,” Lydia offers.

“What?”

“Look, you love Derek and Derek loves you. You want to be together and you have babies on the way. The twins have a chance to be with their birth parents in a loving household. I’m certainly not going to stand in the way of that just because it would be more convenient to have your decision now. Cora and I are tough. We’ll muddle through. If you really think Derek is going to change his mind, then you need to give him the chance to.” She pauses a moment and then adds, “You only have until the birth, though. Whatever goes on the birth certificate is what sticks. Forever. If Derek doesn’t come around, you need to be prepared to take the babies and break his heart or sign them over to me and Cora and never look back.”

It makes so much sense. Derek just needs to get used to the idea. Lydia is right: Stiles might have to make a terrible choice in the end. He might end up hurting Derek even more. But he can’t give up, not when it comes to his own flesh and blood.

“That means lying to him,” Stiles whispers. Lying and manipulating and thinking he knows best...the exact habits he's trying to break.

“Sometimes you have to lie,” Lydia replies. “It’s the only way to have your needs met. And it’s best for everyone involved. It’s worth it if it works out in the end.” Lydia is a wrathful goddess and Stiles her faithful knight since the day in high school when Jackson dumped her and she declared to the whole school she was looking for a knot anyway. She showed him how not to be afraid. No matter how many people tried to tease him, he could stand tall and strong with her at his back. Stiles’s debilitated conscience makes a meek whimper, but he can’t help getting swept up in her righteous charisma.

“Okay,” he replies. “Okay.”

***

Derek is smiling when he opens the door. Stiles’s heart clenches at the sight. Derek’s angular features have gone soft with the pregnancy. The usual goofy grin seems more at home on his rounded face. He’s wearing designer jeans and a cable knit cream colored paternity sweater that hugs tight to his bulging belly. It looks as soft as it does expensive and Stiles just wants to bury his face in it. Well, he wants to bury his face in _Derek_.

He settles for gulping and looking anywhere but at the evidence of how he filled his omega up. He has no doubt that Derek would not appreciate him going all cave-alpha and perving on his pregnant belly, not if he sees the whole experience as just another way to martyr himself.

They stare into each other’s eyes with an intensity that Stiles can’t quantify. It’s sweet, a little sad, mature and so very different from the simple business relationship that began their time together.

They’re interrupted by the click of a camera phone and a cackle. “Lydia is going to love this. Don’t just stare at him like you can’t wait to disembowel him, bro. You’re letting him pry you out of here to preach your grumpiness to the rest of the world...I think everyone here knows you like him.”

Derek makes a noise between a whimper and a growl, a delicious flush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Shut up, Cora,” he grumbles.

“Seriously, Stiles,” Cora says, shoving her way past Derek to greet Stiles with a hug, “I’m so happy you’re getting him out on the town.” She whispers in his ear, “he was very worried about looking good for you. I think you’ve got this.”

Stiles had been surprised to find Cora on his side after she learned the whole story. According to Lydia, she’d spent a good twenty minutes cursing her brother’s name, but in the end she agreed that they should all help Derek to make as informed a choice as possible. And to be informed he had to see the life he could have with Stiles and the twins. Stiles hasn’t spoken directly to her about it, though. This can’t feel even more like a conspiracy.

“Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it,” she says with a wink, tossing Stiles a set of keys. “Be safe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Like there’s anything you wouldn’t do.”

Derek waddles more than walks over to the garage. Stiles’s instincts scream to guide him by the small of his back or at least help him haul himself up onto the seats of Cora’s ridiculous SUV. Knowing that Derek would take that about as well as a punch to the face, he settles for hovering awkwardly until Derek has managed to flop into the passenger’s seat. Stiles hustles to the other side and grabs Derek’s hand, hopefully cutting through the embarrassment that’s heating Derek’s cheeks. Yes, it was comic, but Derek has nothing to be ashamed of. Being large and unwieldy is just a side effect of the miracle of life.

“Sorry,” Derek eventually says. He grips Stiles’s hand tight. “I told her that we had just started to date before the pregnancy, but then I cut things off once I found out.”

“You told her the kids were mine?”

“No. I said it was from my heat therapist. You and I are saving my heats for bonding.”

“How very prudish of us,” Stiles replies. “She believed that?” he asks, knowing full well that Cora is just pretending to believe it. His skepticism will sell the lie better. He probably shouldn’t be able to lie so well to someone he loves. Then again, he’d spent most of high school lying to a trained police investigator.

“She knows everything that happened with Jennifer. It isn’t hard to believe I’d want to take things slow with an alpha. She’ll probably try to intimidate you. She won’t want you to talk me into keeping the twins.”

Stiles is still baffled that Derek thinks Cora wants nothing more than to take the twins. It’s obvious she’s hoping that Derek will keep them. “I doubt it,” he mumbles.

“Don’t underestimate Cora. She got expelled from school for biting the tip of another alpha’s ear off.”

“What? No way.” Though Stiles can see it. Beneath the sarcastic, jocular exterior, there’s something dangerous about Derek’s sister...like if you were stranded on a desert island she wouldn’t even wait until she got hungry before spit roasting you.

“It was right after our parents died. That was a rough time for her. And Laura and I weren’t doing a good job of giving her what she needed.”

“Is that why you’re doing this now? Because if you were so against the babies, you could have gotten an abortion. I know you - not being able to exercise, having to stay home from the office so you can keep up the whole alpha thing, submitting to the most omega part of being an omega...that’s like having a pole stabbed through your chest. It’s a massive favor to ask. Scotty is my bro and my best friend, but I don’t think I could ask that of him.”

Derek stares out the window, watching the traffic as Stiles scans for a parking space. He releases Stiles’s hand before he answers. 

“I let Cora down. I didn’t help her when she needed me most and it led to her running away from home, doing things I can’t...it took us a year and a half to find her and she wouldn’t speak to me for a year after that. I can’t make any of it up to her, but I can give her this.”

Stiles can’t help but hate Cora a little bit. As glad as he is that his children will make it into this world, it was wrong of Cora to ask Derek to keep them. She must know how much power she has over him and the guilt trip she’s laying on him is long overdue a forgiving conclusion.

“You know she loves you, right? She was young and angry, but she’s your sister. You don’t have to earn your relationship with her. Your other sister isn’t carrying two bowling balls in her belly, and she and Cora go on exercise dates.”

“That’s different,” Derek replies. He lets Stiles steady him as he steps down from the car and tucks himself against Stiles’s side as a defense against the hustle of the crowd. 

“How is it different?”

“Laura’s an alpha. They were always going to clash. I’m an omega. Without our opa, they both needed a nurturing influence. That was supposed to be me, but I failed. I let Laura convince me that we didn’t need to pull Cora out of boarding school. We needed to continue on as our parents had planned. Laura would succeed my ama as CEO. I would get my MBA and meet an influential alpha to marry. Cora would graduate top of her class from Choate, go to a top college, and join Laura one day. That may have worked for me and Laura, but it didn’t work for Cora and I should have listened instead of forcing her to run away.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Stiles pauses. They’re outside the restaurant now, but he doesn’t want to interrupt their conversation to walk in. Instead, he presses Derek back against a small concrete outcrop, the only break between the shiny storefront windows and the bevy of outdoor cafe seats. One hand rubs soothing circles along Derek’s hip, the other cups his cheek. “Listen to me, Derek. You can ignore everything else I say, but just hear this: you were young and in pain and doing the best you could in a shitty situation. Whatever the consequences, you can’t blame yourself. And if Cora is holding that over your head after all you’ve done for her, then _she’s_ the one to blame.”

Derek leans into Stiles’s palm, but shakes his head. “No. No. She begged me to let her come home, but Peter was still in the hospital and Laura couldn’t take care of her. I was in business school in LA. I could have taken her in or deferred a year to work things out. I wanted to. But Laura had a five year plan and she’s the alpha and I actually _liked_ school. I didn’t want to leave. Do you get it, Stiles? I used to want kids, but I’m not built to put them first. I’d rather dress up and play alpha than give them what they need. I’m too selfish. I’ve always had too much alpha in me, no matter how hard I tried to be good. That’s why Jennifer could never trust me. It’s…”

Stiles realizes with sudden clarity that Lydia is right: this isn’t a quick fix. He can’t just argue his way into making Derek have higher self-esteem. It might be a life-long process that he’s signing up for. And it might never happen. Derek might never be “normal,” whatever the hell that means. He can’t count on Derek changing or let himself fall in love with the person who Derek might be if he were healthy. He has to love the omega in front of him now, for better or worse. In fact, he already does.

Derek is still rambling, blaming himself for everything his ex-wife did. Stiles interrupts him with a kiss, soft and lingering. He lets his hands roam down to Derek’s shoulders, around his widening hips, up to cup his belly. 

“I understand why you blame yourself,” he says. “I don’t think you should. In fact, I don’t think Cora would want you to. And I think you’re being kind of sexist against omegas, which I can’t exactly let go, but...you were young and lost and missing your parents and you let your alpha older sister talk you into making a bad decision that hurt someone you love. You don’t owe Cora your babies. I’m not going to try to pressure you into keeping them if that’s not what you want, but if you want them, with or without me, you keep them. I guarantee she will let you.”

Stiles holds Derek’s gaze for nearly a minute. Derek’s eyes are sharp, focused and probing in a way that Stiles admits sends a thrill of fear down his spine, but eventually Derek nods, leaning in so that their foreheads rest against each other. 

Then Derek’s stomach growls, startling them both.

“I guess we should probably get seated, because it sounds like the little monsters in your belly are out for blood.”

Derek flushes with embarrassment, but lets Stiles grab his hand and lead him over to the maitre d’ stand.

The trendy little restaurant is packed full of small tables lit by electric candles. Stiles would have preferred one of his usual cheap hole-in-the-walls, but Derek has been suffering from indigestion and lactose intolerance recently. Plus he can’t have seafood or alcohol and should try to eat healthy...that eliminates pretty much all of Stiles’s favorites. He feels out of place here, like all the fancy people can see through his blazer and unwrinkled pants to the fact that up until a year ago he’d been living like a student.

There’s some awkwardness while Derek tries to squeeze into the ‘romantic booth’ Stiles stupidly reserved, until a group of three omegas with waists the size of twigs offer to switch their four top. Stiles smiles when the two of them that squeeze into one side of the booth peck each other sweetly on the lips.

“Stop looking ashamed already,” Stiles complains to Derek. “We’re facilitating young love.”

Derek snorts. “I look like a sweaty, beached whale. People are here for a romantic evening and I’m untying knots just existing.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you have no idea how alphas work, dude. Everyone’s trying hard not to stare at you because they know you’re mine, but I guarantee they’re all scheming how to get their omegas as full and round as you. You look gorgeous.”

Derek smiles a little, but still seems unsettled. Stiles wants to hit his head against the table. Of course Derek doesn’t want to hear that. That’s just Stiles’s hormones talking.

“Do you want me to not make reference to the pregnancy? Or the fact that I’m the apa? Do you hate this? Because I can shut up. I can….”

“I’d like to see you shut up. For the novelty,” Derek mutters, but he lets his ankle brush against Stiles’s under the table. “I don’t mind you. It’s just...it’s strange. People know I’m not an alpha. It’s not a secret. At the office, I make it easy for people to forget, so they’ll treat me like any other colleague. I don't get noticed.”

“Yeah, no. People notice you all the time. Whether alpha or omega, pregnant or not, you’re beautiful as hell. Deal with it.”

Derek seems ready to protest when their server, a perky male omega wearing hipster glasses, manages to practically skip over, despite the tight quarters. 

“Oh, look at you!” he exclaims. “Your alpha sure knocked you up but good. Tell me if there’s any special off-menu cravings and I’ll let the chef know. Her omega is pregnant with their fourth so she’s used to it.” He reaches out for Derek’s stomach and Stiles is half convinced the poor, clueless guy is going to lose that hand, based on the look Derek’s giving him.

As much as he wants to see Derek karate chop the over-chipper asshole, Stiles remembers that Derek is supposed to be keeping stress to a minimum. He clears his throat pointedly.

“Oh, oh, sorry!” the omega gushes as he puts his hands up. “Are we in the possessive stage?” he says in a kiddie voice with an over exaggerated frown.

“No, we’re in the ‘it’s rude to touch strangers without their permission and could you please get us your manager stage.’” Stiles replies snidely. Derek is shy about his omega body, and a survivor of domestic sexual violence, he shouldn’t have to deal with grabby waitresses.

The omega’s face falls, but he doesn’t scurry away until Derek adds, “I think that’s your cue to leave.”

“Wow. Is it always like that?” Stiles asks, shocked. Most of his friends are gay. The only pregnant omega he’s close to is Scott, and Scott is so enthusiastic that he practically pulls people over to his belly the second they comment on it.

“Why did you think I don’t want to go out?”

“General grumpiness; because you’re a spreadsheet-loving, old-literature reading, workout-obsessed, shut-in weirdo who hates people and places where they congregate. I mean, we've only been out a few times in all the time we spent together. I assume you don’t like it.”

Derek shrugs. “I like dining out. But it wasn’t in your contract. I didn’t want to push.”

“What? You mean we could have been gallivanting all around town that whole time? Dude, what else haven’t you told me about yourself? What else do you secretly like?”

“Nothing.” Derek grumbles, like a petulant teenager who has just learned how to mix sullen and sarcasm.

“Yeah, you secretly like nothing. God forbid you lived your life before it was all accounting and power suits. C’mon, grumpybear, think back through the mists of time to when you were fun and had hobbies. I want to finally get to know the guy I fell in love with in all his sour glory.”

“Haunted houses,” Derek mumbles.

“What?”

“I like haunted houses,” Derek forces out, like he’s being tortured.

“Oh. My. God.” Stiles accidentally flips over their bread basket in his excitement. “You were a ghost hunter. I love it! What else? Did you have an EMF meter? A proton pack? Did you wear coveralls?”

“No!” Derek looks suddenly shy. “Laura and I used to go on haunted tours. Every stupid family vacation...our parents would rent a catamaran or go to an art auction. We picked something we thought was too tacky for them to use as a bonding experience. But--” his eyes go glassy in a look Stiles understands too well. He sees it in the mirror on the anniversary of his oma’s death every year. “I think they wanted us to have something that was just ours. My ama’s desire to been seen as classy did not extend to amusement parks. Or camping. Or waffle fries. No matter where we were, ama would always sample the waffle fries.” Well it’s good to know that Derek’s perfect family had some lower class vices.

“She even asked for them from a veg burger place in Mumbai,” Derek continues. “They were so spicy that my opa had to dare her and Uncle Peter to finish them all. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen him cry.”

 _You’re veering away from relatability again,_ Stiles thinks. Except other than the jetsetting, he can see how maybe Derek’s parents did a great job of raising down-to-Earth kids, shielded from the pressures of their class...right up until it all came crashing down on their heads. 

“Can’t say I’ve had the experience.”

“I’ll take you sometime,” Derek replies, casually. “My favorite restaurant is actually a thali place in Hyderabad.”

“Sure. Let’s just up and go to wherever that is to eat whatever that is. Why not? What about flying me to Paris so we can have croque-monsieur overlooking the seine?”

“I would,” Derek says, enthusiastically, “but my doctor says I shouldn’t fly. After the birth, though, we can take a--”

Stiles snorts. “I was joking, dude! Slow your money roll.” He reaches across the table to grab Derek’s hand. “You don’t have to wine and dine me. You can have me for pizza rolls overlooking the ESPN. I don’t feel like we missed out on the fancy restaurants part of dating. I just...there were so many things you didn’t tell me so I wouldn’t immediately know your identity. That’s what I want. I mean, I don’t even know your job title. Though for a while I did think of you as Head of Scent and Ass Development.”

Derek kicks him under the table. Pregnant or not, Derek does not mess around when it comes to violence. “I can’t believe I missed you.”

“Love you too, ghostbuster.”

“I think I preferred being a mystery to you.”

“Nope. Too late. Job title: go.”

“VP of Ocean Operations.”

“What does that even mean?”

“We run a shipping company. I oversee the ocean part.”

“Isn’t that like the whole thing, though?”

“No. Getting stuff on and off the ships doesn’t take place on the ocean. But the title’s vague on purpose. What I really do is babysit the team at headquarters so Laura can travel. I watch our operations statistics and budgets. Or, I watch the people who watch them. Plus, I vote the Hale shares on the board.”

“Wow. I knew from the fancy clothes and legal team that you were important, but that sounds really high up. What are they doing to replace you when you’re on paternity?”

Derek lips tighten to the point that Stiles might mistake it for a snarl. “They haven’t.”

“What? Cora told me you were on bedrest for a while and that you started working from home even before that.”

“Satomi, my head of Pacific Operations, relocated from our Singapore office to cover for me. Voting the shares is just showing up to the meetings a few times a year and doing whatever Laura wants. Now that she and Laura are actually speaking, Cora can do it.”

“And the babysitting?”

“Doesn’t need to happen. All the other VPs are good at their jobs. They're alphas and they all have at least twice the years experience I do.”

“Then why were you babysitting them to begin with?”

“Laura’s paranoid and I’m her safety blanket. When our ama died, Laura was two years out of business school, running our Sydney office. It took her another four years to prove to the board she could take on the role of CEO, even though HSI is privately held and we controlled most of the shares. Everyone was hoping she’d fail so that the board could hire someone with more experience. She needed someone she could trust just making sure nobody stabbed her in the back. But she more than proved herself. All her detractors have been fired, retired or converted. She doesn’t need me anymore.”

“So do you think you’ll go back?” Stiles asks. It’s a logical question, but not one Derek seems to have been expecting, judging by the way his eyebrows practically leap off his face. 

“Of course."

"But they don't..." how can he put this delicately? "If they care that you're an omega and they don't need you, why do you put up with it?"

"I am the CEO’s brother and a major shareholder so people can’t treat me like a weak little male omega trying to tie a banana into a knot without squishing it.”

“Really?” Stiles wonders. Obviously a part of Derek enjoys presenting himself as an alpha, but Derek has never given Stiles the impression that he could get away with any omega traits at work, not even when he’s pretty much the boss. “Because your work seems like a sexist anachronism to me. It’s 2015, gay people are getting married, we have a black president, our phones are basically magic...those old corporate blowhards can do better. And so can you. There are hundreds of non-sexist companies out here, _especially_ in the Bay Area, that would be happy to have a brilliant young omega like you as CEO.”

“It’s our family’s legacy. And I don’t think you know what a CEO is if you think I’m qualified to do it.”

“I know what a CEO is. I’m the CEO of Peer2Peer Therapy.”

“You’ve got to change that name.”

“What? Why? We help peers to help peers with therapy.”

“Because it sounds like an internet company. Founded by tweens. In 2001.”

“Hey! I was a tween in 2001.”

“And you haven’t been cool since.”

“I’ll have you know, I was already 100% unadulterated spectacular then. Don’t fix what ain’t broke.” He smirks, nudging Derek’s ankle with his foot. “And how would you know? You think cool means putting on a leather jacket and talking like Batman while you glare at everyone and pretend to be tragically misunderstood. It’s all a cover so you can hide in a corner and secretly nerd out over the debut of a new powerpoint template.”

“I wasn’t nerding out,” Derek grumbles. “And _I_ didn’t use a name that looks like it’s missing a hashtag for a respectable medical company that hopes to get insurance to pay for something that wasn’t previously considered legitimate medical treatment.”

So Stiles hadn’t entirely considered how the name would look to the old insurance actuaries hiding in a cobweb-filled basement somewhere. “Okay, maybe you do have a little bit of a point.”

“So we rename it.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at the ‘we,’ because they just got back together and they’re moving into ‘we’ territory a little fast. But on the other hand...Derek thinks they’re a ‘we!’ And that’s awesome! “Okay, Mr. Bigknot, what would _you_ , wearer of leather jackets and maker of nerdliest powerpoint presentations call it?”

“Nerdliest isn’t a word.”

“Says the nerd. Now what would you call it?”

“Something respectable,” Derek reflects. “It should be authoritative and classical. People want medical companies to sound sturdy. They want them to sound like an institution.”

“Oooh. Classical. I know: Manticore.” Deaton had already shot it down, but what did Deaton know?

“You want to name a company that helps people with disabilities after a terrifying man-eating beast with a human head and the body of a lion?”

“Fine. You do better.”

“What about Triskele? It sounds nice. And the symbol is interesting.”

Stiles pauses. He doesn’t want to insult Derek. And he definitely wants them to be a ‘we,’ even when it comes to his company. But it just doesn’t feel _right_. “It does sound nice. But the Triskele is about your family. There’s no group of three at the clinic. There’s no three with _us_.” Their family would be either two or four, but never three. “It should be something fitting. About the work. Oh! What about Hephaestus?”

“The Greek god of the forge?”

“Wow, so you’re going to go no holds barred on the nerdy, huh?”

“Stiles.” It’s probably wrong that Stiles loves the way Derek says his name when he’s exasperated, but he doesn’t care. “You’re the one who--”

“Oh, no, that’s different. I am the _CEO_ of a company that caters specifically to people with physical disabilities. I get to know all about Hephaesteus and the club foot that got him thrown out of Mount Olympus and his super _heated_ forge. Hephaesteus Heat Consulting. How does that sound?”

“Hephaesteus Heat Therapy. Even though you won’t do much actual heat therapy, you’re more likely to get through the bureaucracy if it sounds the same as whatever they’ve rubber stamped before.”

Stiles raises his water glass. “Hephaesteus Heat Therapy it is, then.”

Derek chinks their water glasses together, a soft smile on his face. “Here, here.”

***

Once they pull into the garage, Stiles prepares to leave, but Derek grabs his hand and pulls him into an elevator barely big enough for Derek and his belly, let alone the two of them. Stiles shakes his head.

“I’ll meet you upstairs,” Stiles decides, planting a chaste kiss on Derek’s lips. He vaults up the stairs, aiming to beat the elevator up. Of course, it’s probably fast, considering the kind of money Cora must have spent on it. At least that’s what Stiles thinks when he makes his way to the only open door on the bedroom level. 

But instead of a bed covered in too many designer pillows, what he finds takes his breath away. The nursery is gorgeous, continuing the house’s nautical theme with bold blue walls and two rich wooden cribs with a painted lighthouse between them. An old sailor’s map of the world is painted in navy blue on the ceiling, with a sunken light at the center of the compass rose. 

His babies are going to grow up here, in this beautiful place. He feels tears well up, not sure if they’re from joy or sorrow. He can’t help but chafe under the idea that he had no part in choosing the room where his children will spend their youth. But it is nicer than he ever could have imagined. He doesn’t have the means to give them this. Not that he thinks babies care about design aesthetic. 

Stiles can’t help himself. He tiptoes inside, feeling the solid wood of the changing table, opening a toy chest, already stocked with stuffed whales and rattles and wooden blocks. A small music box sits on the windowsill, a perfect antique but for the fact that DEREK is carved roughly into the side in childish lettering. Stiles traces it with his his fingertips, popping it open to find a delicate male ballerina inside, dancing to a haunting old time lullaby. He imagines a young Derek staring at it, preparing to grow up to be this dainty, twirling thing, providing beauty on demand. The thought of it settles like bile in his stomach.

There’s a rocking chair by the window with a strange moon-shaped pillow in it. Stiles is trying to figure out how to sit on it when Derek waddles in the door.

“There you are,” he says. “I was waiting for you upstairs.”

“Oh. The door was open so I thought you were in here. This is the most uncomfortable pillow I’ve ever sat on.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “That’s because it’s not for sitting. It’s for breastfeeding.”

“Oh!” Stiles leaps off the pillow like it’s burning, stumbling and ending up on the ground in the process. The side of Derek’s mouth twitches towards a smile, but of course he’s too cool to laugh at physical comedy. “Oh, so...wait, um,” the nursery is here, where Derek lives. “You’re going to breastfeed?”

Derek takes advantage of Stiles’s vacancy to claim the rocking chair. Lowering himself into it looks like an Olympic sport, but once he’s down, he sighs in pleasure. Stiles is mesmerized by the way he absently rubs his protruding belly.

“It’s important for babies to have breast milk. It helps with their development. Good for the omega, too.” He shrugs. “I’m going to feed them for the first few months, when Lydia and Cora will be living here. Then I’ll try to keep pumping for as long as my body will cooperate. I want to give them the best start I can.”

“That’s great!” It’s really great. Stiles had thought that Derek would hand the kids over to his sister and that would be that, but if he plans to breastfeed, there’s no way he won’t get attached. 

Hell, the fact that he’s doing this at all is evidence he already is. With the kind of money the Hales have, he could hire the twins a whole team of wet nurses. Or maybe there’s a way to buy just the milk? Not to mention that, if they’re in the percentage of female alphas it works for, either Lydia or Cora could take hormones to lactate themselves. 

Stiles can picture it: Derek rocking back and forth in that chair, holding a beautiful, dark-haired child to his breast. He still doesn’t understand how the breastfeeding pillow works, but he imagines the way Derek will look down at his child, half in awe, half in bliss, sunlight streaming through the window, the soft lullaby from the music box playing in the background.

“You really think you’ll be able to let them go?” he blurts before he can think the better of it.

Derek clenches his jaw. “I’ll do what I have to. You shouldn’t worry about me,” he barks. It sounds like he’s trying for a booming command, but his voice is too high and inherently melodic to achieve that level of intimidation.

Despite the glare and the suddenly rigid posture, Stiles can see the insecurity. Derek doesn’t _know_ if he can give the twins up. He’s determined to, but his doubts are written all over the forlorn look in his eyes.

“I’m getting tired,” Derek says. “Maybe you should go.”

Stiles stays just long enough to help lift a scowling Derek out of the rocking chair.

***

Stiles paces back and forth in the five-foot path through the mess that leads from the door of his studio apartment to the bed. He misses the vast open space of the apartment he gave up in the city. He sits down and flips on the TV, browses Netflix for half a minute, makes a pop tart, paces again. He should go out. But what if his cell phone dies? What if he needs to pack a bag? Maybe he should pack one now. Maybe he should buy a ticket to Boston. Maybe he should catch the last train to the airport and wait there. Maybe he should have a drink. Or a Xanax. Or five.

A knock on the door startles him enough that he trips over the Costco-sized box of fruit rollups he hasn’t bothered to put away. He falls straight into his stack of DVDs, knocking over his lacrosse stick, which smashes into his coffee mug, which then spills all over the stack of mail he left on top of his keyboard. 

He curses, grabbing the knee he banged against the side of his desk and limping over to pick up the coffee-sodden mess to toss into the sink. The only saving grace of his tiny apartment is that he doesn’t have to stumble far.

The knock comes again, firm and deliberate, too calm for the frantic rush of Stiles’s over-caffeinated mind. Who could possibly want to stop by now, at 11:30 on a Tuesday night? Is he getting evicted? Or maybe it’s someone coming to inform him...maybe Scott’s dead? But that makes no sense. Scott’s in Boston, in labor, without him.

Stiles tosses the latest alumni magazine at the coffee puddle. It looks absorbent and he has no time to read about all the great leaps forward his brilliant classmates are making anyhow.

He lets himself breathe for a moment before he shuffles over to the door. The building had better be on fire, otherwise he’s going to rip the asswipe on the other side a new hole.

Derek has his hand raised, ready to knock again.

“Oh, it’s you.” Stiles has been so focused on Scott and his baby and the fact that Stiles is missing his niece's birth that he’d completely forgotten about Derek, despite having thought about pretty much nothing else in the four days since the big revelation. After Derek ordered him out last night, Stiles wasn’t even sure that Derek wanted to talk to him, let alone that he would show up at Stiles’s apartment in the middle of the night.

Unless it’s another emergency. Did something happen with Cora? Is Derek alright? “What are you doing here? Do you need something?” It comes out snappish in Stiles’s ever-mounting anxiety. He knows he’s staring dumbly, raising a hand to his mouth even though he hasn’t so much as thought about chewing his nails for years. 

Derek looks down at the floor, his hands coming up to rest on his stomach, swaddled in very soft looking stretch corduroy paternity overalls. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Cora said that Allison posted something about Scott going into labor on Facebook. You, um, wrote a comment about not being there because you came back to California early. She said you sounded...unhinged. I thought, maybe, I could help?” Derek winces. “I shouldn’t have come. I can go--”

“No!” Stiles exclaims. He was too shocked before, but now he sees how amazing this is, how perfect. Despite all that he’s seen Derek as a victim (or as an abuser of his wealth and privilege), he’s forgotten how _good_ Derek is to him, how much he honestly tries to help with whatever Stiles needs. Stiles doesn’t deserve this beautiful omega, coming up on eight months pregnant with twins and still standing at Stiles’s doorstep ready to offer comfort when he should be already asleep.

“I’m just surprised and, um, I’m so incredibly not ready for guests, but if you can stand the mess, please come in.” As Stiles turns he realizes exactly how pathetic his apartment is, between the business plans taped all over two of his walls and the piles of dirty laundry and half unpacked boxes. He’s been living half a life since he moved out of the place he shared with Derek - working and not doing much else. It feels strangely vulnerable, like rough wool scraping at the inside of his soul, letting Derek see the evidence of how little Stiles has been coping without him.

Derek glares at the pizza boxes on top of the oven that Stiles tries to shove on top of an already overflowing trashcan and the coffee-soaked mail that is dripping into his stack of used cereal bowls in the sink. “You’re a slob,” he states, monotone. Maybe this is the dealbreaker, the thing that’s going to put Derek off of Stiles for good.

“Um, yeah?” There’s no use in denying it now, with Derek lingering in the one small stretch of floor where he can survey Stiles’s kingdom of mess without knocking any of it over.

“You kept the apartment clean.”

Stiles snorts. “The housekeeper you hired did that. She even gave me a lecture once, in Spanish. And I always tidied before I knew you were coming over. It was your space. It was my job to keep it nice.”

Derek’s previously neutral expression slides into disappointment. “Oh. I meant for you to make it your own. You didn’t have to keep it clean if you didn’t want to.” 

Stiles laughs. “Do you think I enjoy living in my own filth? I was happy to have you coming over to keep me on track. Let’s face it: this is just embarrassing.”

“Yes, it is.” Derek replies. “So, your brother is in labor?”

Stiles nods. “According to my apa, it started about seven hours ago. Last update, he was at seven centimeters. It’s his first birth, so even though he's a male omega, it probably won’t happen until morning, but I can’t sleep knowing he’s out there and in pain. What if he needs me?”

Derek frowns. “He has his alpha.”

“I know. And she’s a great alpha. But, you don’t get it. I’ve been with Scott since we were kids. He’s my _brother_. I’ve always been there for him. I love him.”

“But you’re not his alpha.” Derek’s eyes drop. The muscles in his jaw twitch. “Unless you want to be. Bonds can form without a bite scar. Maybe when you were young, you--”

“Ew! No, Derek, stop talking! Me and Scott are not like that. It’s just...I’ve always felt responsible for him. He was a small kid. He had asthma, you know? And his apa pushed him down the stairs once. It was _me_ he told. I’m the one who went to my apa and had it taken care of. He’s the nicest person in the world - naive, gullible, morally upstanding even when it’ll do nothing but hurt him. So many alphas would have taken advantage if I didn’t protect him. And now he’s in pain and I can’t--”

Derek sighs. He looks Stiles straight in the eye and says, “he doesn’t need you.”

“What? Of course he needs me.” Scott has always needed Stiles. From when his mom was working all the time or couldn’t afford his school things and he’d stay over at Stiles’s house or borrow his hand-me-downs. Stiles had been there with his inhaler for every asthma attack. He’d been there when he met Allison. He’d made sure Scott’s life was _exciting_. So what if Scott met his dream alpha? So what if he didn’t tell Stiles that she cheated on him? So what if he moved to Boston? They’re brothers now, officially. Scott will always need Stiles. That’s a simple fact. “Screw you, Derek. I thought you were supposed to be comforting me.”

“I _am_.” Derek waddles over and grabs Stiles’s hands. “Trust me. He doesn’t need his brother. He needs the alpha who bred him.”

“And how would you know that? You’ve never even met Scott! You don’t know any of my friends other than maybe Lydia and Isaac, though that alpha-stealing, scarf-wearing, human disaster hardly counts.”

Now Derek looks both amused and annoyed at once. “I know because of this.” He gestures at his swollen middle. “Cora is doing her best to take care of me. I let her because that’s what she needs, but the alpha role is already filled.”

Is that what’s going on? Has Scott suddenly gone from clumsy and gullible to someone who no longer needs Stiles? Has he been humoring Stiles all this time? Calling him about wedding plans? Asking Stiles’s advice when he accidentally sawed off his corpse’s toe his first year of med school? Saying he wanted Stiles to be both uncle and godapa?

And what about Allison? She and Stiles have been friends for years, even as he trampled over their privacy, third wheeled hundreds of what he now sees were dates, even joined Stiles as a heat therapist when it practically destroyed her relationship with Scott. Has she been humoring Stiles too? Had the move to Boston been as much to break Scott from Stiles as it had been to break Allison from Isaac?

Stiles feels the weight of it, compressing his spine, tightening the muscles along his ribs. Scott doesn’t need him. He hasn’t in a long time and everyone knows it. It’s time to let go of his role as Scott’s savior. Let Scott help him when he needs it. Help Scott if he asks for it. But let go. The loss is startling, resonating through his body like the hollow toll of a church bell.

“Stiles,” Derek commands, exasperated. “I didn’t mean that Scott doesn’t ever need you or that he doesn’t love you.”

Stiles nods. It’s true. They will always have each other. That will never change. But Scott is having a baby with the alpha he loves. Stiles has his own impending family, even if the configuration is unknown. It’ll never be Scott and Stiles, brothers in arms, ever again. 

“It’s just that pregnancy is a special time for a bonded alpha and omega,” Derek continues, oblivious to the fact that he’s already won. “It’s...intimate. Cora could stand in as a protector and caregiver when you were gone, but now you’re here. I don’t need her to be my alpha. I have a bonded alpha; I need her to be my sister.”

Then realization slowly dawns, quick on the heels of loss and as horrifying as a child’s first understanding of death. “The bond never wore off for you. You’re pregnant with my children. Of course you still think of me as alpha.” It had all been for nothing. Those long months alone when he could have been sharing this with Derek. They’ll never know. Even if he gives the twins up, Stiles will always be the sire of his children. A bond like that can fade or be superseded, but it can’t be broken. There’s no escape. Derek is trapped in this and Stiles can never free him, 

Derek shakes his head. “I disagree.”

“What? It’s true. The bond doesn’t wear off in pregnancy. It’s a fact. You can’t just disagree with it.” Stiles marvels that Derek has the audacity to try.

“You’re thinking about me being a poor coerced little omega that you took advantage of. That’s what I don’t agree with,” Derek clarifies. “Before, I told you that it shouldn’t matter how we met, but it does matter. I was able to fall in love with you because you were my heat therapist. I wasn’t doomed to fall in love with whoever took my case. I chose you to take my case because it was the only way I could have you was as my therapist.”

Stiles squints. It doesn’t make any sense. Derek just admitted that he fell into an unprofessional relationship with Stiles _because_ of his status as Derek’s therapist. That’s the textbook definition of therapeutic misconduct.

Derek crosses his arms over his chest. In the overalls and the rounded midsection, it just looks cute instead of intimidating. “I wasn’t lazy.”

“What?”

“When I booked you instead of asking you for advice, I wasn’t just being lazy. I googled your name. I read all your publications and learned about the work you do with disabled omegas. Lydia’s Facebook had this picture of you.... It’s you and an omega in black and white. You’re baring your neck to him like an omega. It should be humiliating and you should be angry, but you look serene. That’s how I knew you were different.”

Stiles knows the photo. It was Erica’s capstone project for her Queer Studies major. She wanted to show how much of gender identity is taken from context and not physical difference. Scott is the omega, because Erica needed an omega with an obvious bonding mark and a male alpha comfortable enough to bare his neck. Scott is standing behind Stiles, wearing an alpha style suit, unbuttoned enough to show his bonding bite. Stiles is naked, flaccid, but obviously alpha from the faint remnants of stretch marks around his knot. Scott is gripping him possessively, but he has an intense, indulgent smile on his face, while Stiles looks serene, almost wistful. It had taken them at least an hour of goofing around before getting the shot. If Stiles remembers correctly, he was thinking about Battlestar Galactica. Not that he plans to tell Derek that.

“But you said you’d never thought about wanting an alpha to play omega for you.”

“It wasn’t about that. I saw that and I knew I could trust you. You didn’t have anything to prove...the way Jennifer did. Then Marin did your background check and I found out that you were barely making ends meet. I realized I could help you. I had something to offer.”

“You could buy me, you mean.” The anger sparks again, even though Stiles is begging it not to. Derek is exposing himself. He’s in the middle of telling Stiles that the bond isn't fake and still Stiles can’t let go of the fact that Derek manipulated him, thought his love was something he could purchase.

Derek huffs. “I guess that’s fair. I deserve that. But I swear I just wanted to help. I was fascinated by you, so I found your favorite little diner - two blocks from the clinic? I would follow you there. You spilled your coffee all over the waitress, but you apologized and brought her some comic book that she loved. You talked to your friend Erica about alien reproductive systems and gender norms for almost an hour. You told Ruth a bedtime story over Skype. You smelled amazing. I wanted you even more. I think that’s what started my heat early. I’d hoped for more time to get to know you. Maybe if I’d had more time, none of this would have happened.” He gestures once again to his stomach.

“You stalked me?” Stiles is as amazed as he is concerned about Derek’s mental stability. Stiles has never been the stalkable type. A normal person would probably be scared of that level of obsession, but Stiles just feels flattered. He’s relieved to know that Derek liked him _before_ he was a client. He knows it’s wrong. Scott will disapprove, but that kind of devotion appeals to the deep, dark parts of him that think love _should_ be slightly tinged with insanity. He’d certainly proved that by asking Lydia out by renting her a horse. “You creeper,” he laughs, nudging Derek.

“I thought I would get up the courage to talk to you. I thought maybe you’d notice me. A part of me wanted you to so we never had to be patient and therapist. But you didn’t. You don’t notice omegas, do you?”

Stiles is at a loss. He wants to believe that he would have noticed Derek if they had met any other way, that they actually had a chance of being a _normal_ couple. Derek is literally one of the most attractive people Stiles has ever seen. He looks like an alpha. And his smell had been intoxicating from the start. But before Derek, or even after, Stiles never gave omegas who aren’t clients much thought. One whiff to see if someone was an available-smelling alpha and if they weren’t, they were off his radar.

Derek nods to himself. “That’s why I always thought you were gay.”

Stiles shrugs. “My sexuality is a confusing, complex, ever changing, multifaceted, amorphous rainbow blob. If it helps, when you walked into my office, I noticed the fuck out of you.”

“That’s why I had to do it. We never would have been together if I wasn’t your client. And I thought, maybe if I could give you the things you wanted, you would be willing to have me.”

“You could have just asked me, you know?” That’s what Stiles still hates about this whole situation. As grateful as he is to know that Derek’s feelings for him started before the bonding process, he hates feeling manipulated. He hates that Derek won’t just trust him, that he feels the need to constantly go over his head. “I wouldn’t have turned you down.”

“We don’t know what you would have done,” Derek replies. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He rubs at his lower back, wincing. 

Stiles can’t help but stare when he arches his back, pressing his belly out even farther. Derek seems to have grown even in the day since Stiles saw him last. Stiles did that. He made Derek full and round and smell like an intoxicating mix of the two of them. His fingers twitch, itching to palm the evidence.

“Oh, wow,” he breathes. When Derek’s eyes shoot up to stare sharply at him, Stiles covers by adding, “you look like you could stand to sit down. Let me, um…” There isn’t really a place to sit other than the uncomfortable Ikea desk chair that only comes up to the mid back anyhow. Plus it has coffee dripping off the desk onto it. So much for the absorbency of bullshit alumni accolades. The only other place is the bed and Derek is here to provide comfort; Stiles doesn’t want to presume anything about sleeping together again, not with so much going on.

Derek snorts half a laugh. “If you find me a space, I'll lie down.”

Stiles pushes his clean laundry off one side of the futon and shoves his laptop under the bed. Derek immediately makes himself at home, pulling one of Stiles’s pillows between his legs and stuffing the other under his bump. He rolls his eyes when Stiles just stands there hovering. It takes Derek patting the spot next to him for Stiles to startle into action. 

It’s awkward, to prop himself up on one elbow, staring into Derek’s sad green eyes, the evidence of their bad decisions between them. But Derek is here, providing comfort, proving that he still cares after all that he tried to push Stiles away. The awkwardness doesn’t matter, not really, not when Stiles has always been the king of awkward moments and throttling them to their most syncopated and weird.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asks. He reaches out to cup Derek’s belly and Derek doesn’t stop him. The babies nudge him a little, but they seem to be quieting down. “I don’t have any more pillows, but I can get you a sweatshirt or something. You know what, I’ll just do that.”

After he has a thankfully clean sweatshirt shoved under Derek’s head, he lays back down beside him. They end up holding hands somehow. Stiles doesn’t know who initiated.

“Cora says that your parents stayed in Boston for the birth,” Derek says. Stiles wants to melt under the seriousness of his expression. “You were going to stay, too, weren’t you?”

Stiles nods. He had a return booked, but it was a flex-fare. If Cora hadn’t told him about Derek, he probably would have done his business over Skype and canceled it. Stiles never thought he’d miss the birth of Scott’s first child. But, then again, he’d naively thought they’d always live in the same cramped apartment, not on opposite coasts.

“You came back for me,” Derek replies. There is awe, small and miraculous, beginning to dawn on his features. “You didn’t know I was pregnant, but you came back.”

Stiles feels his insides flutter. All the time he and Derek have spent together, from Derek hanging off his knot to simply cuddling on the couch, none have felt this intimate. They’ve told each other secrets, their hopes and fears, seen each other behave badly, hurt each other, but this is the first time that Stiles thinks he’s seen the true Derek: the scared, hurt little boy reaching out from beneath the gruff exterior and entitled privilege. Stiles doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before. He couldn’t make sense of Derek’s wild vacillations between wanting Stiles to be a professional at arm’s length and his desire to break all the rules of that professional relationship so that he could pull Stiles close.

But it’s there in those searching, changeable eyes: Derek wants to be loved, more than anything. He wants to know that Stiles will put him first, before Scott, before instinct, before his therapy license, before even the babies. He’ll test Stiles’s love. He’ll push Stiles to the limit, but he won’t ask. He’s afraid to ask because he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. That’s why he’s been determined to buy it’s facsimile, through whatever means he can: money, influence, bartering away pieces of himself until nothing is left.

Stiles pulls himself closer, until they’re breathing each other’s air. He cups the back of Derek’s neck with one hand, his belly with the other. The twins are still now, as though they sense the reverence of this moment. “I love you,” Stiles says. He’s said it to Derek before, but maybe this is the first time Derek is ready to hear it. “I love you so much. I don’t even care that you were creeping all over me. I hate how much this situation has hurt both of us, but I’m so glad we’re here. I don’t care if it’s messy or uncertain or what a few people might consider slightly unethical. I love you. I want to be here.”

Derek closes his eyes. There might be tears gathering at the edges, but Stiles can’t make it out in the dim light from his one, cheap lamp. “I’ll keep the babies,” he says. “Stiles, I’ll keep them. I know that’s what you really want. I’ll be a good omega for you. I’ll give you a family.”

Derek is laying it out for him on a platter, everything Stiles has wanted ever since they met - this beautiful man, a family of his own, a partner who can dig him out of his most stubborn moods, who will inspire him to be the best he can ever be. But he can’t do that to Derek or the kids. He can’t have Derek resenting him or their children for forcing him into a traditional omega role he’s deeply uncomfortable with. 

Stiles thinks about the nursery, about the little music box with Derek’s name carved roughly into it like a promise. He thinks about the way Derek touches his stomach with such delicacy and awe. He thinks about the way he’d look at Ruth, even at her most insistently annoying. Derek wanted children once, more than anything. At one point he even wanted them with Stiles. Something happened to make him fearful. Stiles can’t just steamroll over it in his effort to force Derek to be healthy. Lydia is right: Derek needs time. And in order to give it to him, Stiles needs to be okay with the possibility, even if he thinks it’s unlikely, that Derek won’t change his mind.

“Derek, listen to me,” Stiles cups Derek’s cheek, gives his a firm, chaste kiss. “If you want to keep the twins, that would make me a very happy alpha. But I want you to be happy. I want you to have what you want and not do whatever you think will please me. I’m yours. You don’t have to do anything to keep me here.”

Derek’s eyes glisten. Stiles’s heart feels like it’s being pumped full of air, ready to split his chest and tear him in two. He can’t promise that. It’s too big a thing to promise, an adult thing, when he’s just a child. He honestly doesn’t know if he’ll be able to follow through, but he wants to, more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life. That has to be enough, right?

“If we can’t give the twins a loving home with two parents who truly want them, then we can’t keep them,” he says, to justify it to himself as much as to Derek. “I trust Lydia and Cora to raise them and I’ll still want to see them, but we’ll be their uncles, not their parents. Just don’t...don’t make a choice out of obligation to me or to Cora. Really think about whether you want them, because they’re inside you and they’re yours first.”

“I…” Derek’s eyes flit around the room. He looks everywhere but at Stiles. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

It’s reluctant and noncommittal, but it makes Stiles’s heart soar. He leans forward, pressing little kisses to Derek’s cheeks, his lips, his forehead. “Thank you.” He wants to kiss Derek all over. The kisses linger. The sheets rustle as they both try to shift towards each other. 

Derek hooks a leg over Stiles’s hip, but his belly is in the way. Stiles catches Derek’s lip between his teeth as he pulls away. He kisses down Derek’s collarbone as he yanks Derek’s thigh over him, rubbing his knot against Derek’s hardening length. 

“God, I missed this,” Stiles slurs. He presses a firm kiss over the faded scar of a bite on Derek’s neck. “I missed you.”

“Me too,” Derek rumbles. “I missed you and I missed this.” He squeezes Stiles’s knot through his sweatpants for emphasis.

Derek gives out a soft gasp when Stiles palms his hip to tilt them even tighter together. Then Derek is pulling Stiles’s head up from where he’s trying to ineffectively pull at the straps to his overalls. Derek’s hands are strong on his cheeks, still calloused. He kisses Stiles deftly as he pulls off the straps himself, tugging at Stiles’s shirt until he practically chokes him, trying to yank it off without breaking the kiss. 

Stiles is panting for air by the time he manages to pull his shirt off. Derek’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy and a little wild. Stiles rucks up his henley to expose the taut curve of his belly. Derek gasps and arches into him when Stiles rubs his hands over it, fingers spread wide and still dwarfed by the round expanse. He’s fascinated by Derek’s pushed-out naval, the heat coming off him like it did all those months ago when the twins were conceived. He must have been running hot ever since. 

Derek gets Stiles to help him sit up before he pulls off his shirt and forces Stiles to yank off his overalls and pull down his own pants. Derek’s nipples are flushed a dusky pink color, swollen along with a slight puffiness in his usually hard pecs. His biceps are smaller than Stiles remembers, but still defined when he reaches out to pull Stiles to stand between his spread thighs. Stiles’s cock is hard and leaking, smearing precum over Derek’s protruding belly as Derek embraces him. 

Before Stiles knows it, a strong hand forces him to his knees. He goes willingly, of course. Derek’s fingers tangle in his hair. Stiles enjoys the tugging as Derek guides him down toward his cock. Stiles’s mouth waters just looking at it. He buries his face in the dark thatch of pubic hair and just inhales. Derek smells amazing: ripe with fertility, scent woven together with Stiles’s so entirely that Stiles’s recollection of his old scent fades.

Derek will only tolerate so much of that, however. Stiles gets manhandled until he’s staring at Derek’s familiar cock. The vein running up the side pulses. It’s flushed, twitching under Stiles’s fingers as he slides them loosely up and down the shaft. Derek is circumcised, like most male omegas, so Stiles tongues at the slit without any preamble. Derek tastes sweet, a little musky, so different from an alpha. Stiles feels his body flush, his knot throb. Everything is raw, perched, dangling over a precipice of lust and something more. 

He moans as he sucks his omega. He’s in love with the noises Derek makes: gasps and grunts, but mostly these rushed gulps of air, like he can’t sip enough to drink this all down. He spreads his legs wide and pushes Stiles’s head up and down on his cock at a bruising pace.

“Oh god, Stiles,” he moans. “Keep going. Jesus, I’m going to…”

Oh god, Derek is pulsing and spurting down his throat. He swallows it greedily, letting the excess smear across his cheek as he pulls back. Derek doesn’t waste any time. He uses his grip on Stiles’s hair to guide him back to his face for the filthiest kiss of Stiles’s life. Maybe Derek’s pregnancy cravings are for his own cum, considering how he just devours Stiles.

Stiles goes to reach for his own neglected cock, but Derek grabs his wrist in a bruising grip. “Not so fast,” Derek growls into the kiss. He splays Stiles’s hand on his massive belly. “See what you’ve done to me? You’ve stuffed me so full that my back aches and my feet are swollen and I have to wear stupid fucking paternity wear and hide from all the big fucking knots at my office. I can’t even drive myself, your damn babies are so big. You’ve made me helpless and weak and you’re going to pay.”

Stiles is not entirely sure Derek is joking, but he enjoys the thrill of fear that comes from the thought that he might be serious. Despite his initial awkwardness with the dirty talk, Derek has always known what to say - the perfect mix of combative dominance and honest, omega desire. 

Derek pushes Stiles down onto the bed on his back and with surprising agility for someone nearly eight months pregnant with twins. Then he swings his legs over so that he’s straddling Stiles’s face. Derek is tender and leaking and Stiles just dives right in.

It’s hot and wet between Derek’s thighs and the weight of his pregnant omega above him is almost crushing, but Stiles thinks this is where he belongs. Derek should be moving above him, seated regally, pinning Stiles down and using him for his pleasure. Stiles is just an eager mouth, determined to do nothing but please his omega. Derek is bearing his children. Stiles isn’t deserving. Derek is glorious and Stiles is nothing. 

“Oh god,” Derek moans. “I’ve been so horny. I have to change my underwear three times a day because I get wet just from the way my thighs press together. Since the second trimester, it’s been like the first few hours of heat 24/7.”

Stiles wants to say that’s a particular mix or hormones that can serve to mimic pre-heat, but he’s too busy eating Derek out. He’s slick and warm and Stiles is almost suffocated by him, but the lack of oxygen just adds to the head rush.

“I’m too big to reach myself now. My friend Jordan made me buy one of those knotting dildos that you stick to the tile in the shower, but I could just picture myself slipping and hurting the babies. Oh, fuck, Stiles, right there! You have no idea how much I needed this, waddling around, fat with your children and unable to satisfy myself. You owe me. Eat me out until you choke.”

As Stiles opens Derek up with his tongue, his chin digs in against the sensitive nerves of Derek’s perineum. Derek keens, humping forward so that he’s practically fucking himself on Stiles’s face. Stiles just keeps licking, hypnotized by the rocking motion of Derek above him and the delicious taste of him, until Derek is shuddering through a second orgasm, spilling pathetic spurts of sterile ejaculate onto Stiles’s bare chest. 

Derek is panting desperately. He takes a moment to relax before slowly moving off. Stiles sucks in great gasps of fresh air that he had no idea he even needed. “Holy shit! That was amazing, dude!”

Derek chuckles. He’s laying on his side, eyes closed and face flushed. He strokes his belly soothingly, a serene smile on his face. Stiles gets up and quickly rinses his mouth out with Listerine before returning to bed to lay behind Derek, once again strategically propped up on pillows. 

He kisses the back of Derek’s neck until he feels a shiver go down Derek’s spine. Then he starts to massage Derek’s shoulders and his lower back where he’d been rubbing earlier. Derek’s muscles are tight, but they seem to melt under Stiles’s touch as Derek moans unashamedly. 

Afterwards Derek finally arches his back and pulls Stiles’s arms around him to cup the bump. Stiles rubs his hands over it, firmly. He still can’t get over the feeling of his children moving around lazily in there. Though thinking that his children were technically witness to their opa sitting on their apa’s face does add to the humiliation in an interesting and not entirely unpleasant way.

“They’re big for twins,” Derek says. “You had to fuck me full of the world’s biggest damn babies. I wasn’t lying about what a pain in the ass that is.”

Stiles snorts. “It looks good on you. Everything does.”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Compliment my looks.”

“Because I like your looks. It’s not the only thing I like about you. I like your dry wit and, um, the little I’ve seen of you doing your job is a kind of competence porn, and I love how much you care about me. But I also like that you don’t look like a stereotypical omega in build, but your face is still gorgeous. Do you want me to not? Because I can just think about how beautiful you are. I can keep that to myself.” 

Derek grunts vaguely, but he shimmies his hips so they press back against Stiles in invitation. Stiles knows him well enough to know that he doesn’t mind the compliments, even though they bother him. Maybe one day, Derek will be confident enough to take them at face value. 

“You done for the night?” Stiles asks. His hardness is pressing into Derek’s ass, but he doesn’t need to come. This is all about making Derek feel good.

“I’m tired, but I missed your knot. Go ahead, if you’re up to it.”

Stiles nips the back of Derek’s neck. “Oh, I’m up for it, baby. I’m so up for it you don’t even know.”

Derek is slick and open from the massage and the rimjob, so Stiles is able to slip right in from behind. It’s easy, languid, and tender. Derek lets out long, luxurious moans, as Stiles slides in and out of him. It’s one of the poses Stiles is used to with some of his motion-restricted clients, so he’s able to steady Derek with a single hand on his hip while Derek braces his belly. 

“Knot me,” Derek gasps. “Come on, alpha. You fucked me full, now knot me!”

Stiles can’t help but follow the command. Derek’s pregnant body is different, warmer. His hips have subtly widened in preparation for the birth and all the increased blood flow to the area has made his channel swell just slightly, gripping Stiles like a warm, silky glove. Stiles’s knot doesn’t catch so much as it’s simply immobilized from all sides, like hardening into concrete. 

With the knot comes the blinding flash of relief, joy, and awe that always accompanies an orgasm. Stiles doesn’t come as much as usual because Derek is not in heat and is already knocked up. Instead, his orgasm seems to go on and on, dry, with every twitch of Derek’s body. Stiles embraces his omega, maybe too tight.

“Did you come?” he asks once he’s caught his breath.

Derek nods. “Internal only, this time.”

“Great. Less cleanup.”

They both laugh, relaxing into the tie. The babies are rolling in Derek’s belly again. 

“Are they always this active?” Stiles murmurs, feeling sleep begin to nip at the edges of his consciousness.

“Babies are more active at night. They sleep during the day when my movements soothe them. They’d rather poke me in the kidney and destroy my sleep.”

“Then I’m even more grateful you interrupted your beauty sleep to come here.”

Derek snorts. “Maybe three orgasms are all the sleeping pills I need.”

Stiles’s laugh trails off into slumber. 

He doesn’t remember his dreams, but he wakes up to the cacophony of pings from about twenty text messages coming in at once. Dawn is spilling in through the bushes in front of his one, largely obstructed, window. His knot has slipped out and Derek must have pulled the comforter over them, but they are otherwise in the same position they started in, with one of the babies nudging Stiles’s palm. 

Stiles stretches out to grab his phone from the pile of boxes serving as his nightstand to look at the messages, but before he can, the phone buzzes with a video request from Allison.

“Hi Stiles!” she exclaims, despite the bags around her eyes. Her grin looks like it might split her face in two. “Are you ready to meet your niece?”

“My niece?” Stiles mumbles, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Oh my god! My niece! She’s here? Scott did it? That’s amazing! Allison, you’re an ama! Congratulations!”

She laughs, joyful and unrestrained. “Yeah. I’m an ama and you’re an uncle. Now, we need to make this brief. Scott wanted me to call you before we let anyone else in, but I don’t know how long we can hold them off.”

Allison flips the camera around to show a pale and exhausted Scott sitting propped up in a hospital bed with a little bundle pressed to his chest. His hair is matted and his complexion pale, but he’s staring at his baby with such love that he might as well be the Mona Lisa for how good he looks.

“Stiles!” He grins dopily. “Look!” Scott doesn’t seem able to hold the baby up to the camera, so Allison moves the phone in closer. 

“This is Dahlia Zefiryn Argent,” Allison says proudly from off screen. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is,” Stiles replies. It’s not a lie. Dahlia has inherited dark brown hair and eyes along with epic dimples from both her parents. She has Allison’s tiny, adorable nose and Scott’s complexion. “Oh my god, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Scott looks triumphant with the compliment.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

“Naw, man, you didn’t miss much. Oma insisted on being here and got a good look at my omega parts, which would have been embarrassing if I wasn’t in so much pain. Oh, and I threw up kind of into Allison’s hair. And there was a lot of blood. I think you would have fainted, honestly. I had Allie. And turns out she’s weirdly nonchalant about my blood.”

Derek was right: Scott didn’t need him. 

“Hey, you’ll be here for Christmas, right?” Allison prompts. “You’ll be able to meet Dahlia soon enough.”

“Um,” Stiles mumbles. Derek isn’t due until February, but with his health problems and the fact that twins can sometimes come early even for male omegas, Stiles doesn’t want to risk it. He looks over at his sleeping omega, who happens to be drooling on Stiles’s favorite sweatshirt. “Would you kill me if I couldn’t make it out for a little while?”

Scott’s face falls, but then Allison is exclaiming, “are you in _bed_ with someone?!”

Stiles blushes guiltily.

“Dude, you were having sex while I was in labor! Not cool.” Scott punctuates it with a yawn. “I was in pain.”

“You two had sex when I had the stomach flu! In the bathroom, like five feet away.”

Allison laughs, but Scott is still drooping. 

“Is it Derek?” Allison asks.

The man in question takes the opportunity to roll over and toss a possessive arm over Stiles.

“Shhh. But, um, yeah.”

“And is _Derek_ the reason you won’t be joining us out here for a white Christmas?” she teases.

“Yes.” They’ll find out about the pregnancy sooner or later, but Stiles doesn’t want to steal their thunder today. Not to mention that Derek is starting to stir and Stiles doesn’t think he’d react well to Scott and Allison knowing about the babies. “I’ll tell you about it another time. I love you guys and I love Dahlia. Give her lots of hugs and kisses for me!”

Scott and Allison both say they love him too before hanging up.

“Baby born?” Derek mumbles, his eyes squinting up at Stiles.

“Yeah. She’s amazing,” he murmurs wistfully. “I have a niece. I think I’m in love.”

The muscles around Derek’s eyes tighten before he closes them, drawing the blinds on the world. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I could give you that.”

 _You can_ , Stiles thinks, but he stays silent. He falls asleep with Derek gripping him tight.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the holidays, Stiles struggles to find the balance between respecting Derek's wishes and getting the future he wants for them both.

“Holy rich person Christmas, Batman,” Stiles quips as he follows Cora up the stairs to the top floor. The barre that runs beneath the 360 degree panoramic windows is wrapped in fresh pine garlands and sumptuous red and silver ribbons. A hundred glass globes hang from the ceiling, filled with fairy lights. The tree itself is as perfectly coiffed as a wall street banker’s combover, decorated with ostentatious nautically-themed ornaments -- bronze figurines and bulbs with carefully constructed model ships inside. The presents beneath spill out like a cornucopia, meticulously arranged for a Hallmark photo shoot. Stiles winces at the four cheap present bags he’s shoved his own gifts into: one each for Cora, Lydia, Laura, and Derek.

Cora rolls her eyes at him. “Hey, it’s easier for Laura to negotiate this as a freebie from the company that does the HSI Christmas party than it is for her to find five minutes to order something on Amazon herself. Don’t sweat it.”

“Okay,” Stiles surrenders with a pop of his lips. He drums his fingers on the back of a rocking chair that has appeared with a few other Christmas-appropriate upholstered chairs and loveseats in a cluster to the right of the tree. 

Cora takes in what must be his frantic expression and snorts. “Okay, so you’re failing at not sweating it. Just remember this isn’t like the usual first Christmas with the inlaws. The closest we have to a tough alpha parent is our Uncle Peter, who is spending Christmas in the Maldives enjoying the beach, the underaged omega company, and the no-extradition treaty. You know me and Lydia already. It’s just Laura and she’ll probably spend half the time yelling into her phone. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Except whether or not your brother is going to make me give up my children.”

Cora snatches the present bags from Stiles and tosses them under the tree, easily ruining the picture-perfect effect some poor decorator probably spent hours crafting. “You shouldn’t worry about that either. He’s not going to give them up.”

“And you know this, how?” He doesn’t bring up that Cora and Derek spent years estranged. Also, he knows from Lydia that Cora expects a lot from people. It doesn’t matter how many times they disappoint her. She’ll expect Derek to “do the right thing,” even if he’s not capable. Stiles, on the other hand, has been hurt more times than he can count by good people unable to do the right thing.

“He loves them! Look at everything he’s done for them. He put his career on hold. He almost died. Come on. He’s even planning to nurse them. I’ve seen him do this a hundred times. He might talk as though everything is rational and justified, but at the end of the day he’s going to do what he feels.”

“It isn’t the babies he loves,” Stiles protests. Derek is a family omega, that much is obvious. But in the past few weeks, he hasn’t shown much feeling towards the twins at all, not the way Stiles had hoped. “He loves _you_. He’s doing all of this for you, so your kids will be healthy. He feels guilty about what happened when you were younger and he’ll give you anything you want to make up for that.”

“Derek doesn’t owe me anything,” Cora replies. “He could have handled things better, but I was the one who decided to run away. He didn’t stop looking for me and he’s the one who pushed to make things right. I don’t blame him.”

“Tell him that.” Stiles clenches his fists. He wants to just slam their heads together, make them _communicate_ so Derek can realize that he already has the love and the acceptance he keeps fighting for.

“I _have_.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not some heartless asshole. As soon as you two started dating again, I told him that Lydia and I don’t need to keep the babies. He won’t listen to me.”

“See?” Derek is stubborn. It doesn’t matter what rational arguments Stiles makes. It doesn’t even matter what Derek himself feels. He’ll do what he thinks is right, even if that will make everyone suffer.

“No, it’s just denial,” Cora insists. “He’ll come around. Once he holds his babies in his arms, he’s not going to give them away.”

Stiles wants to believe her. It would be so easy to fall into the comforting embrace of her reassurances. But they’re empty platitudes. It’s too good to be true. After everything Derek has done to Stiles and vice versa, he just can’t trust that they’ll get their happy ending. He’s certainly not going to hang his future on some dumb cliche about opas falling in love with their kids after delivery, not when one of the reasons he loves Derek is that he defies cliche.

“Besides,” Cora smirks, “I have a plan…. Well, Lydia has a plan. You’ll see. She always gets what she wants.”

Stiles has witnessed Lydiia get what she wants a thousand times, from forcing the homecoming committee to elect two alphas as king and queen, to a brand new conceptual mathematics endowment in her honor. But he also knows that he’s not willing to go to the lengths she will. Not when the person who would end up hurt is Derek.

“You are prepared, though?” he asks, uncertainly. “Just in case.” Stiles wants to believe that Derek will want to keep the kids, but he’s not stupid enough to go without a backup plan.

Cora shrugs. “We have the nursery set up. Lydia’s moving her lab out here and she’s already read like ten baby books. We’ll be fine.”

“That’s reassuring,” Stiles grumbles. He hates the idea that his kids might be nothing more than a casual contingency plan for the people who might end up raising them. If Cora and Lydia cared a tenth as much as Stiles does, they still wouldn’t be so cavalier about it.

“It is,” Cora replies. She pats his shoulder, though it’s a little too rough to be comforting. “It’s all going to be okay. You’ll see. Just relax.”

“But--”

Stiles is interrupted by the elevator opening to reveal a tall alpha with straight dark hair and Derek’s same intense green eyes. She’s wearing pressed black cigarette pants, a tight black bodice and a creme colored blazer with black silk piping, the only nod to the season being its red lining. If the Christmas tree made him feel intimidated, it’s nothing compared to how worthless he feels standing next to Laura Hale in his ripped jeans and traditional Deadpool Christmas Sweater. 

“Hello, Cora,” Laura offers. It’s cool, but her smile seems genuine.

“Hi, sis,” Cora replies. The laid back optimist Stiles was just talking to has now been replaced with someone smaller and more fierce, her eyes glinting with suspicion.

“Hi, um, I’m Stiles.” Stiles waves at Laura awkwardly, which only causes her eyes to narrow. Stiles is reminded of the Terminator zeroing in on a target.

After a moment of intense scrutiny, she strides forward to shake his hand. It’s as firm as the handshake Derek went to a seminar to perfect, but with a threatening edge to it. She keeps a hold, but doesn’t bother to introduce herself. 

“So you’re the alpha who hurt my baby brother.” She gives him another cursory glance. Stiles knows exactly how lacking he must be in her eyes. The only person she even sees as poorly put together as him is probably the office’s bike messenger. He gulps, shying away from the judgement.

“Well, um, technically yes, but he--”

“I don’t care why you left him. All I care is that you did it when he was sick and vulnerable,” she says as she yanks him in close. “I don’t buy for a second that you were only friends before you reconnected. Derek wasn’t spending every waking moment not at work at a heat clinic. You were dating and then you abandoned him when he needed you the most. If you even think about doing that to him again, I’ll have a legal team so far up your ass that you’ll have to file a habeas corpus motion in order to take a shit.”

What is it with Hales and lawyers? Marin Morrell was tough enough to handle when Derek was trying to resolve the situation out of love for Stiles. Stiles doesn’t want to know what she’d be like in battle mode.

“Laura!” Cora exclaims, stepping in between them, teeth bared like a pitbull ready to pounce. “If he hurts Derek, we’ll cut off his knot, stuff it like a sausage casing and feed it back to him, but for now he’s family.” 

She slings her arm around his shoulder, more like a mobster helpfully guiding a stool pigeon to his death than family embracing family. Stiles isn’t sure which of the two alphas terrifies him more.

Laura doesn’t acknowledge her sister’s argument, but Cora’s embrace does force her to release Stiles’s hand. He shakes off the effects of her iron-fisted grip with a wince. “We are in the same position, I suppose. Considering the headache his stubborn decision to go through with this surrogacy is causing for me, I can’t imagine how embarrassing it must be for his alpha. You hurt him, so I’m obligated to mistrust you, but I honestly can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

“Embarrassing?” Stiles asks, dumbfounded. He’s still reeling from the fact that not only does Laura Hale think he left Derek for something as selfless and kind as serving as a surrogate for her sister, but that she actually thinks that’s _acceptable_ behavior. He still doesn’t understand how Derek’s decision has anything to do with Laura at all. Shouldn’t she be happy to see her own family expanding?

“Yes, inconvenience.” She sighs haughtily. “Derek is my right hand. Do you have any idea how bad this looks for us?”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Stiles asserts. “I’m proud of Derek.” Or he would be, if the surrogacy story were in fact the truth. “And since when does an omega getting pregnant make anyone look bad? It’s how we all got here. Derek is a good omega and he’s only doing what’s right for his family.” At Laura’s glare, he clarifies, “For your sister.”

“I’m not saying that Derek _is_ bad for being pregnant,” she insists. “I love him and I want him to be happy. I’ll do whatever I can to support him in that. Hell, if he wanted to quit HSI to marry an alpha and pop out kids, I’d accept his resignation letter without a word. But he’s unbonded, unwed and about to give birth. After he’s turned down god knows how many of our strategic partners? Shipping is a traditional field. We have partners all around the world, many in conservative countries. It’s bad enough that I took over as CEO at age twenty-nine with my younger omega brother in a strategic position. Now what do I tell people?”

“Can’t you just tell people he’s doing it for Cora?”

“Yes, my homosexual high-school dropout sister is a real conservative crowd pleaser.” Laura rolls her eyes. “We’ve told everyone that Derek’s been unwell. Hopefully they all just assume he’s in rehab.”

“How is that better?” Stiles shrieks. Despite being a diehard omegaist since college, he’s never really believed that old school sexism like that could still exist in the new millennium. “Being an addict has much more chance to hurt the business than being an opa!”

“I don’t make the rules, kid,” Laura says ruefully. “I support Derek, whatever he wants to do. But the truth is that people in our line of work don’t think that omegas can have it all. Derek can have his career or he can have a family, not both.”

Is that what’s holding Derek back? Fear that he’s asking too much? Stiles knows that his omega loves his job, but he must know that Stiles will support him. Hell, he’ll put Erica in charge of the business and be a stay-at-home apa if that’s what Derek wants. Or Derek can find a new job, one that lets him have it all. Does he really think he’d fail at being a parent just because he likes to work?

“Just because you can’t do it doesn’t mean it’s not possible,” Cora chimes in. She looks murderous now. If Stiles had any doubt that she and Laura had recently been estranged, then this would cure him of it. 

“I’m a good ama,” Laura replies haughtily. “My children want for nothing.”

“Except their ama,” Cora retorts. “Where even are they right now? _Boarding school?_ ”

“They’re with Katerina and her family in Switzerland. Harlo will be too busy skiing his little heart out to know I’m gone and Sonya is two. She won’t even remember when she’s older.”

“I don’t know why you bothered to win custody of Harlo if you aren’t even going to spend time with him,” Cora argues. “Stuck on a mountaintop with his stepoma’s crazy Russian family sounds like a real picnic.”

“You get to question my parenting skills when you have your own, Cora. Not before.” Laura’s matter-of-fact, but pointed tone matches Derek’s well-polished truculence. “You’ll see soon enough. Being a parent is the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”

“Not if you love--” Cora begins, but is interrupted by the elevator opening to reveal Derek. Not only does his presence stop Cora from saying something potentially unforgivable, but the mere sight of him makes Stiles relax like a puppet cut loose from its strings. He’s wearing a grey and white cowl neck poncho and tight leggings that make him look relaxed and made for cuddling. 

Laura immediately moves to usher him onto a festive red and white plaid loveseat. Stiles is surprised to see that he lets her instead of snarling the way he does at Stiles and Cora when he perceives even the slightest whiff of coddling. 

“How are you feeling, Der? How was your nap?” she asks, all traces of the previous fight with Cora erased from her face, like an Etch-A-Sketch, shake things up and it’s gone.

“Bloated,” he grumbles. “Tired. Wishing the babies were here already. Hungry.” Stiles and Cora have witnessed proof of all of the above, but it’s strange to hear Derek complain so openly when his default way of dealing with pain seems to be stoic silence.

Laura nods sympathetically. She takes his hand and kisses him on the forehead like a child. Derek leans into it, letting his eyes go half-lidded with relief. Maybe Cora is right and Laura is screwing up her own children by missing their family ski vacation, but Stiles suddenly doubts that Laura stayed in town over Christmas because she has any important meeting today. She’s here because she doesn’t want to leave Derek.

“Alright, baby brother, let’s see what the caterers have brought for us. We can go against tradition and put off opening presents until after you and the babies have had your fill.”

Lydia sweeps in only moments later, fresh from the airport and armed with an overflowing bag of presents that seem to magically match the decor, despite the fact that Stiles is sure that if she asked Cora to help her color coordinate, Cora would deliberately sabotage it somehow.

Stiles is more that a little relieved to see Lydia, even though they barely end up talking at all. Stiles dutifully plays fetch from the kitchen for Derek. Lydia runs strategic interference between the alpha sisters by engaging Laura in a debate about financial indexes and modeling of the derivatives trade. 

The roast duck and sweet, sumptuous pastries prepared by the caterers may have been the most delicious things Stiles has ever put in his mouth. At one point everyone stops to look at him after a particularly inappropriate moan of gluttonous pleasure. Laura looks judgmental, Cora amused, and Lydia her usual mix of fond and exasperated. Derek is too deep into a duck leg to care.

Stiles is just finally starting to relax when Lydia announces primly, “If we’re all finished making sex noises over poultry, it’s time to open gifts.”

It doesn’t bode well that Laura bristles from even that much of an order from another alpha. Cora practically growls at her sister in response. Stiles moves closer to Derek, even though he doesn’t know what use he’d be in the middle of a three way alpha frenzy.

Luckily, the tension dissipates as soon as it appeared. “Derek first! You can open mine,” Cora exclaims, wading deep into the pile of artfully stacked presents to pull out a mostly filled starbucks bag, crudely stapled closed. 

Derek accepts the gift with a small smile. It doesn’t shock Stiles to find out that he’s a careful present-opener, even when the wrapping is not worth preserving. The second Derek looks inside, his whole face lights up with amusement.

“What? What is it?” Stiles demands, but Derek is too busy laughing to do more than show Stiles a bag full of chocolate bars. Unfortunately, Stiles doesn’t get the joke.

Cora fills in. “He’s been craving these weird German chocolates that Ama used to bring back from the Hamburg office, but couldn’t figure out what they were called. When I was at that stupid board meeting Laura made me go to, one of the old timers knew the name of the underling who used to pick them up for her to bring home. He’s head of some division now, but he knew the exact chocolate and shipped me a whole box. But wait, there’s more.”

Derek digs under the bars and pulls out a tub with a cow on the label, proclaiming itself to be “Udderlove: for nursing omegas.” He scowls, face turning an adorable shade of pink as his both his sisters cackle. He gives Stiles a betrayed look when he laughs along.

“It’s actually very well reviewed,” Lydia chimes in. “I even checked a sample over in the chem lab to make sure there are no toxic trace elements.”

“Thank _you,_ Lydia,” Derek says pointedly, mock glaring at Cora.

“They should be thanking you,” Laura replies. “Not only are you incubating their spawn for them when the miracles of modern medicine would actually allow them to do it themselves, but you’re volunteering to nurse so that your udders are in need of love.”

She doesn’t seem perturbed that nobody finds her joke amusing. Personally, Stiles is too busy feeling horrified to laugh. Before today, he’d known abstractly that if Derek had planned to keep the twins parentage a secret from Cora and Lydia, then he’d keep it from Laura too. Still, he’s not sure he can take any more reminders that nobody is supposed to know the babies are his and, if Derek has his way, those that do will take that secret to their graves.

“You next, Cora,” Laura declares, gesturing to a gigantic box. 

Thus begins the parade of horribleness. 

The first present Laura gives her sister is the most beautiful bassinet Stiles has ever seen. She’s quick to reassure Cora that she actually purchased two of them, but the person who hand-carved it will only ship the other once Cora and Lydia find a house of their own and don’t need to live with Derek anymore.

It only gets worse after that. Stiles gives Lydia a rare book on the early Islamic mathematicians written in Arabic; Laura gives Lydia two hand woven baby blankets. Lydia gives Laura an exclusive spa pass; Laura gives Cora a baby sling. Cora gives Stiles a fancy coffee maker; Laura gives Cora a special edition copy of Goodnight Moon. Derek’s friend, Jordan, sends him a toy drone that he immediately passes to Stiles; Laura gives Lydia a baby book she’s already read. And so on, like every action is calculated to dig the knife deeper and remind Stiles that the babies are for Cora and Lydia and not for him.

After Laura puts both Cora and Derek nearly in tears with a family photo book filled with pictures of their parents to pass on to the twins, Stiles feels the bile start to rise. His tongue must be swelling. He’s going to choke. He’s going to vomit all over this picture perfect Christmas and then aspirate the holiday cheer and die a horrible death in a puddle of his own mistakes and broken dreams.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he murmurs, practically running for the stairs.

Christmas morning had been clear and bright, but the wind is kicking up white tips on the rough surface of the bay. Stiles wonders briefly if the Hales can see him out their monstrous picture windows, collapsed here on the grass facing the Marina. Laura must hate him. She’s right to hate him, when she spends all day with the kinds of alphas who could provide for Derek, who might make him feel safe enough. Derek must be embarrassed that his alpha can’t handle a simple family function. He’s failing, just like he failed at having a real career for so long. He’s just some boy in a stupid fucking sweater. He should stand up. He should go back inside. But he feels frozen to the spot.

The smell of dirt cuts through his panic just enough so he can breathe. Grass tickles at his fingers and he kneels down, gulping in the sea air in great heaving breaths. The momentary relief only serves to remind him of the Herculean task that awaits: how can he be expected to stand and walk back inside? 

He knows the clack of designer heels on concrete - the allegro of Lydia’s short, angry footfalls as she marches towards him. He doesn’t look up when her perfectly manicured nails dig into his bicep like claws. He knows the exact mix of disappointment and impatience he’ll find on her beautiful features, the face of a vengeful god. 

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks.

“I can’t,” he replies. He can’t stand to be up there another second, cooking in the putrescent juices of all those lies. 

Keeping his story straight, he can handle. Derek thinks Cora and Lydia don’t know the father of the babies, Laura thinks Derek is doing a favor for them instead of the other way around, and they all trust Stiles to lie for them. But they don’t know the biggest lie of all -- that Stiles not ready for any of it. He’s in so deep that he can’t get out. He can’t control the situation and he can’t help Derek and he’s not ever sure he can help his kids. 

The slap barely registers. It’s Lydia’s tight grip on his chin, her eyes like diamonds as he matches her breath for breath, like all the panic attacks she ever helped him through.

“You can,” she says.

“She thinks...she’ll hate me. When I take them away, what will she do? What will she make _Derek_ do?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia answers, honestly. Her hands are tangled in his hair. She tries to soothe him, but his heartbeat is running away from him, wild like a scarred colt. “But that’s not what’s going to happen. You and Derek are going to have two beautiful children. Cora and I will put all that baby furniture in a guest room for when the twins come over to visit. You have to trust us.”

“I can’t. You can’t control this, Lydia. You can’t force Derek into something he doesn’t want.”

“Then try having a little faith in him.”

“What?”

“You look at Derek and you still see a victim, but that’s not all he is. He’s an opa. He needs to take responsibility.”

“No. This wasn’t his fault. He didn’t--”

“Didn’t he? You said it yourself, Stiles. He found you. He convinced you to break the rules. He freaked out and ended up breaking your VDD. He was taking fertility meds when he had sex with you during his heat. Cora might have asked him to rethink terminating the kids, but he agreed. He was an active participant in all of it.”

“He didn’t ask for it!”

“So what?” Lydia demands. Her strawberry blond hair fans out behind her in the wind, like a halo of fire. “I didn’t ask to give up my lab at MIT. You didn’t ask to be part of that crazy family up there. Cora didn’t ask to pretend to be forcing her brother into surrogating for us. Yet we’re here doing all of that. Sometimes it’s choice. Other times it’s blind, stupid luck. But how much of it did we really ask for?”

“That’s different. Derek was _raped_. Someone he cared about used her hold over him as his alpha to completely steal his free will and I can’t do that to him.”

“Free will doesn’t mean the ability to fabricate our own realities exactly the way we want them. It means that we have the ability to choose, even if it’s between two options we can barely tolerate. You’re being a good boy. You aren’t using your psychological influence as his alpha to get what you want. That’s all you owe him.”

“But…”

“No buts, Stiles. Just because someone has been victimized doesn’t mean they’re entitled to live the rest of their life in a bubble where everyone around them cleaves to their will. Being abused isn’t a blank check to never be hurt again. No one is entitled to that. No one should be _punished_ by a life free from having to care about how their decisions impact others.”

The tears seem to suddenly dry up, though the self-loathing remains. Lydia is right. Treating Derek with kid gloves isn’t helping anyone. It’s not even helping _Derek_. What Stiles needs to do is a full court press on helping Derek get to a place where all that’s left is to accept. If he truly doesn’t want the babies, then Stiles can’t blackmail him into accepting his children, but it would be unforgivable to give up without making Derek see that he has the option.

“I’m done with this,” Lydia says, looking deliberately bored. “Let’s go back inside before this whole family reunion spontaneously combusts.”

“Good point,” Stiles agrees. His joints protest as he forces himself to stand. He only has to survive the rest of Christmas with the Hales. How hard could that be?

When they step back inside, Stiles wonders if he spoke too soon. Laura and Cora are glaring at each other in stony silence while Derek tries very unsuccessfully to eat a bowl of chestnuts without making a sound. Derek has unwrapped a stack of business books and Cora a box of sea-creature themed onesies. 

Derek gives Stiles a look of utter relief, as though he had been worried that Stiles had decided to abandon the party for good. He keeps it discreet, however, leaning in to the kiss Stiles gives him.

Cora has no such qualms. “Oh, thank god, the buffers are back!” 

Lydia rolls her eyes. “You mean the adults are back to supervise all the petulant children in the room? Derek, why don’t you open my present?”

Lydia’s present to Derek comes in a neat cream colored envelope with an actual wax seal over the seam. He pulls out the papers inside, reading them over carefully.

Stiles nudges him. “Come on, Derek, share with the class.”

“It’s, um, hotel reservations and a concierge number. But these are for the first week of January. I won’t have delivered yet.”

“Exactly,” Lydia grinned. “You both need a little bit of alone time before the babies come.”

“But I’m not--”

“Shush. You’ll be in the same house as the rest of us, which means no peace for months at least. Plus, you and Stiles just got together,” Lydia lies seamlessly. “You deserve some relationship time.”

Derek looks ready to protest, but then Cora kicks him in the shin. “Accept it, you uptight killjoy. I know it’s not as exciting as _work_ , but since the other uptight killjoys you work with can’t handle you going in there all preggo, you might as well have fun in Monterey with Stiles. Lydia booked it through a service that specializes in babymoons. They’ll take care of everything.”

Derek looks frantically from the papers to Stiles and back again. Stiles would ordinarily agree that it’s a bit much, but he assumes this is all part of Lydia’s master plan to convince Derek to keep the babies, so he goes along with it.

Stiles grabs Derek’s hand and then turns to Lydia. “Thank you, Lydia.”

“It’s your turn, Stiles,” Laura commands. “Open something from Derek this time.”

Cora leaps up and rummages through the packages until she finds a small box wrapped in tasteful maroon colored paper. She must know that what’s inside isn’t delicate, because she lobs it at Stiles’s head. He’s lucky that Derek reaches out and plucks it out of the air before it can hit him. 

Stiles pulls off the bow to find a set of keys. Car keys.

“You didn’t,” he gulps. A car? That’s way, way, way too much. Who even does that? Married couples maybe. Rich people, obviously. He looks at Lydia and Laura and Cora, but they’re all smiling indulgently, like it’s just a DVD or a sweater, not a fucking _car_.

Derek nods towards the window. Even though Stiles was just out there, he could have sworn he didn’t see a gray Land Rover with a bow that matches the wrapping paper on the front of it. Stiles’s knees feel weak. Why should they support him when this surreal moment clearly isn’t happening?

Derek must read the uncomfortable look on Stiles’s face, because his smile fades and he starts to backpedal. “It’s not selfless. The BART is too far away and the bus takes a long time to get here. Once I start working again, you won’t be able to borrow my car, so I thought…”

He thought about all the things Stiles _hadn’t_ been thinking about. He sunk all the money Derek had given him into the business. It hadn’t felt right to use any of it for personal things -- not when he screwed up his “job” with Derek so much. How could he justify a life of luxury with his ill-gotten gain? He’d been living like a student for so long, that spending money felt _wrong_. It felt like a waste on little ole' Stiles who didn’t really _deserve_ nice things.

He’d never considered that his self-imposed restraint would impact the people he cared about. He wouldn’t think that using Derek’s money frugally would just prompt Derek to undermine that frugality by buying him more things. Stiles doesn’t know how he’ll ever pay Derek back. He probably never can. And if he does take the kids and go...he’s leaving with a pile of Derek’s cash and his very own getaway vehicle. How is that fair?

Lydia interrupts Stiles’s shame spiral with a painful nudge with her Jimmy Choos. “Why don’t you two go down and take a look at it? Maybe give your omega a proper thank you? We’ll do a little cleanup while you’re gone.”

Stiles helps Derek to his feet, but the hand guiding Derek to the elevator is much more for Stiles’s sake than Derek’s. He needs to stay grounded. Otherwise, he might just float off right now. A car. Derek bought him a car.

“You don’t like it,” Derek states the second they’re alone. His head hangs low and he looks up at Stiles only furtively before looking back down.

Stiles summons what is probably a lukewarm grin. “I _do_. I mean, you remembered I told you about my blue jeep from high school and you got me like … the filthy rich version of that. I appreciate it. Really, I do.”

“But?”

“But it’s too much. I don’t know how I’m supposed to accept a _car_ from you.”

“What’s hard about it? Just accept.” 

Stiles knows his reluctance is making Derek uncomfortable. He’s disgusted with himself that he can’t just do the obvious and be overjoyed that he got a new car. He should jump around and scream like a contestant on the Price Is Right.

Instead, he says, “I can never pay you back for this.”

“That’s why it’s called a gift,” Derek huffs. “I promise that I’m not keeping score.”

“I’m not either!”

Derek just raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe I am and I’m losing this game. By a lot.” Including what Derek is sinking into the business, he’s probably losing by half a million by now.

Derek sighs. He grabs Stiles’s hand and brings it to his lips for a brief kiss. It’s old-timey and a bit weird, but so intrinsically Derek that Stiles can’t help but smile. They hold hands as they walk back out onto the street. Stiles worries about his palm sweating, but Derek seems determined not to care.

The thing is: the car really is that awesome. It has the best sound system Stiles has ever heard. Unlike his old Jeep, he doesn’t have to contort his body and essentially jump in and out of it. It has parking assistance and collision detection and supple leather seats and Stiles hates how much he loves all of that, because he prides himself in being the kind of guy that survives without all the bells and whistles. He has a cabinet full of Ramen and a milk crate for an ottoman and Christmas lights instead of a lamp and he shouldn’t drive a $50,000 car.

“So?” Derek asks. The car has politely lowered the step rail to help him into the passenger seat.

“This is a great car,” Stiles replies. “And I’m happy to not have to take the bus to come see you.” He wants to say all the reasons why he can’t accept it, but Derek seems to preen at the praise. 

“I’m sorry I have money,” Derek says eventually.

“Pssh, no bigs,” Stiles says, like a fucking teenager telling a friend not to pay him back for a can of soda. He does stupid things when uncomfortable situations crop up. And talk about money has always made him squirm.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “So you’re saying that my money doesn’t make you uncomfortable? Because I can’t help the way I grew up. I know that even when we have plenty of money, you think you have to pinch every penny and...I bought you a car because I think we’ll be together for the rest of our lives and if that’s true, then everything I have is yours too. You don’t have to worry about the pennies.”

“But we’re not married. We didn’t…”

“Does it matter? It’s not a big deal for me. I just love you and I have the means to keep you happy. Just try not keeping score. I’m not.”

Stiles sighs. Derek probably has a point. The car is worth more than Stiles has ever made in a year (not counting working for Derek). Derek and Laura probably spent more on the company Christmas party. Maybe it’s the rich person equivalent of buying your significant other an iPad - pricey but not necessarily going to break the bank. 

“I’ll work on not keeping score, I promise, but then you have to work on thinking that you don’t have to buy my love.”

“Stiles, this isn’t some 80s movie, I never thought you could be bought. And if I could, I could probably have you for the price of a bag of Doritos.” Derek sounds sincere, but Stiles can’t believe him. He can’t think of any other reason why Derek would want to keep buying him all these things.

“Didn’t you, though? You said you fell for me while listening to me ramble in a diner. You could have come up and talked to me. You didn’t _have to_ sign up for heat therapy or give me an apartment and an exclusive contract. When you didn’t want to see me, you didn’t have to give me a payoff to stay away. I know that it’s scary, not being able to use your massive bank account to get exactly what you want, but my love is free. I may not love you exactly the way you want me to, but at least I always will, no matter what happens.”

Derek looks away suddenly. He takes a deep breath but doesn’t say anything.

“What? Derek, come on, what is it?” Stiles reaches over the divider to grab Derek’s hand. His heart is pounding. Even though he knows that Derek is just having a hard time expressing his feelings, the panic rises. He can’t stop thinking about all the things that must be running through Derek’s head. Maybe Stiles was too harsh towards him. Or maybe he doesn’t _want_ Stiles’s love if it’s free. Maybe rich people really do only care about what they can buy.

“You’re right,” Derek murmurs. He risks a glance at Stiles, showing only a hint of tears before he turns away again. “I should have j asked you out. That’s what normal people do.”

“Hey. It’s okay.” Stiles’s heart withers. Derek should not sound so defeated. But what can he say? Derek isn’t normal. And Derek _was_ wrong.

“I wasn’t ready to trust and I fucked everything up. My therapist says that it’s normal to want to be loved unconditionally, that it’s okay for me to want that. But I know that’s not possible. You say that now, but things change. Everyone has a breaking point.”

Stiles wants to say that he will love Derek unconditionally. His love feels vast, incomprehensible, like space and eternity. It feels overwhelming, painful in how it stretches him to be more, want more, strive in a way he never thought his sarcastic, cynical heart was capable of. But just because his love for Derek is bigger than he ever could have imagined...circumstances change. 

And even if he never stops loving Derek, he can still let him down. With the babies, he might already be in the process of hurting him. Unconditional love doesn’t mean doing right by each other all of the time, not with people as imperfect as Stiles and Derek.

“You have to trust me,” Stiles says. “I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you, but you have to trust me anyway.”

Derek nods. And then, the sliver of a smile. “I’m trying.”

Stiles reaches out and grabs his hand. “Me too.” 

Derek’s smile blooms and suddenly they’re grinning at each other. Holding hands in a parked car like giant dorks.

“Hey Stiles,” Derek says after a long time just looking at each other. “Would you mind if, instead of going to Monterey, we went to Beacon Hills? It’s the same distance.”

Stiles snorts. “Why would you want to go on a babymoon to Beacon Hills? It’s foggy and cold and nowhere near the beach.”

“It’s where you came from. I...you’ve met my family, I was hoping that I could--”

“Yeah, well, you can meet them at your own peril, I guess. It’ll make you happy?”

Derek nods.

“My family it is,” Stiles grumbles. 

***

“Are you sure you want me there?” Derek asks for the fifth time since they woke up this morning. He even asked when Stiles was in the middle of sucking him off in the shower, which just...rude.

Stiles gives an exasperated sigh, clasping Derek’s hands across the breakfast bar. “For the last time, not only do I want you there, I need you. This is practically _your_ project. Parrish is your contact. You donated the money. You organized everything. I’m just providing the curriculum. Everything else is you, grumpybear.”

“But,” Derek gestures helplessly at his belly. At 37 weeks, with twins, Derek has transitioned from looking pleasantly rounded to ‘is your stomach really built to do that?’ Not that Stiles would dare say so. There’s an air of suspense around him, like he really could pop at any moment. Even though Derek’s doctor is doesn’t see any signs that the twins are planning to come early, Stiles worries. Another reason to keep Derek glued to his side 24/7.

“I told you, nobody is going to care. I mean, try not to spill any water, because that could throw the whole room into a panic, but this isn’t the 1950s. Nobody expects you to stay home, buns in the oven, neither to be seen nor heard. If people are uncomfortable with a pregnant omega, then they can just deal with it.”

“But--”

“Do you want to come?” Stiles insists. He doesn’t want to push Derek, if he’s not feeling up to it.

“What?”

“If you’d rather stay home, then I won’t be upset, but this isn’t your stupid backwards corporate freakshow.”

Derek sighs. “I’m not married and I won’t have any children to show for it at the end. Otherwise I would...I swear HSI isn’t sexist. It would be fine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yes, because discrimination against unwed opas is completely not sexist.”

Derek starts to look angry, not just exasperated. That one telltale wrinkle in the center of his forehead twitches, which gives Stiles pause. Maybe he’s growing up, because instead of pressing his (very righteous) point, he sighs and kisses Derek on the cheek.

“I want you to come in and see the fruits of your good work. You don’t have to if you feel embarrassed but, if you do come, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. People aren’t all as narrow-minded as they are in Corporate America. Plus, I think that Liam might actually cry if you no-show. He’s been working on his professionalism just to impress his favorite opa.”

Stiles doesn’t say that he has an ulterior motive. Seeing Derek work with Liam and Erica and the people at the clinic these past few weeks has been a revelation. Not only is Derek stunningly competent, but he seems happy in a way he never had been before. It’s corporate America (and maybe his sister) that is strangling Derek. It’s the fact that he can’t even be himself enough at work to dare be pregnant in front of his colleagues. 

Maybe, if Derek sees that he truly can have both a satisfying career and a family, he’ll see that they can keep the twins.

“Fine,” Derek relents. He downs the rest of his orange juice in one gulp and follows Stiles to the garage. Driving from Derek’s house means they’ll arrive a little later than the others, but Stiles didn’t want to force Derek to wake up early. He trusts his team with setup.

Derek’s hands twitch in the direction of helping Stiles lift a box full of course materials into the trunk. Stiles snorts in laughter. “Yeah, no. You may still have twice the upper body strength I do, but pregnant people do not do the heavy lifting.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Derek grumbles, but he puts up with Stiles helping him into the passenger seat of the Land Rover. Even though the lingering new luxury car smell still makes Stiles’s stomach churn with guilt, he can’t argue with the convenience of his own car. Especially when there’s no way for Derek to get in and out of his beloved Camaro.

Stiles is glad for the excuse to worry over Derek on the drive over. Otherwise he might be hyperventilating with nerves. This is the clinic’s first real program. The stakes aren’t that high, considering it’s a free workshop. Still, it’s a great way to get the name out there and to build confidence for the staff and investors.

It’s a bonus that they’re able to run any workshops at all. Stiles had felt useless while they all waited around for their licensing paperwork to go through. Thank god Derek found a loophole: only heat training for _omegas_ requires a license. Now they’re giving a workshop for disabled _alphas_ , veterans that Derek’s friend Jordan works with as part of the Army’s PR unit. Stiles’s omega is brilliant. 

The clinic is a small two-story building on a hill near the lake. With its severe A-frame roof and friendly green door, it looks more like a house than a place of business. It had taken months to scent-proof the four treatment rooms and install all of the air filtration systems, but now they’re finally ready. 

Liam is waiting for them by the curb like a puppy left chained by his master. He practically trips over himself going to open Derek’s door.

“Everything’s ready Mr. Hale. I prepared the breakfast spread like you asked and the registration system is online. We have all the mats and support equipment setup and Mr. Parrish is waiting for you inside,” he says the second Derek steps out of the car. Stiles can’t help but smile, even though he’s perturbed that Liam will apparently turn into the perfect little soldier for Derek, when towards Stiles he’s a mouthy child at best. 

“Thanks, Liam,” Derek replies. Even swollen and waddling, Derek manages to hold his head high, his shoulders back. Stiles wonders if he went to a seminar on this too, or if his omega really is just that commanding. Then again, the expensive gray pinstripe suit and the perfectly starched red blouse with the open collar say ‘management’ better than Stiles’s jeans and cheap oxford ever could. That suit probably costs more than Stiles pays Liam per month.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Liam asks. “I put your pillow on a chair downstairs and you have a water bottle and a heating pad for your back ready to go.”

Derek smiles indulgently. “No, that’s fine. I probably won’t sit in for long.”

Liam looks adorably disappointed that Derek won’t stay in the room for the whole class, but he covers it quickly. Derek shares a look with Stiles, commiserating over Liam’s strange hero worship. When Derek first started coming in to the office a month ago, Liam had spent a lot of time staring at his belly as though the singing/dancing alien from Spaceballs might explode out of it at any time. But then Derek had taken him into the office for a talking to that Stiles still doesn’t know the details of (though he’s _dying_ to) and now Liam is all ‘Jump? How high?’

Erica has taken the opposite tack. “Hey preggo!” she calls from where she’s stationed herself looking over Isaac’s shoulder at the registration desk. “How are the bowling balls treating you?”

Stiles braces himself for Derek’s flinch, but his scowl is all for show. Stiles doesn’t know how Erica gets away with her particular brand of irreverence, but he doesn’t care. It’s good to see the slight smirk peaking out at the corners of Derek’s lips. “Grinding my bladder into dust, but growing fine.”

“We can all see that,” she laughs, skipping over to give Derek a hug. “Sock it to me, kiddos,” she says, pressing her palms flat to his belly. “Wow, they’re hyper. Reminds me of this one,” she nods to Stiles, “when he doesn’t get his Adderall.”

Derek winces a little. So far as Stiles can tell, that Stiles is the baby-apa is an open secret at the office. Stiles made sure that nobody asked Derek about it and refused to comment himself. But despite majoring in Queer Studies specifically to never have to use a graphing calculator again, Erica can still do the math. Stiles doubts she’s kept her conclusions to herself.

“Well they’re getting crowded in there,” Derek replies. “So, how’s the attendance? Any last minute cancellations?”

“Nope,” she replies easily. “Everyone’s confirmed. I used your corporate Uber account to arrange transport like you asked. Only problem is we have an odd number of singletons for the group exercises. One of the alphas broke up with his omega.”

“One of us can stand in,” Stiles replies, annoyed that Erica is looking to Derek for a response instead of him. It’s not like Derek is the only adult, in-charge seeming person around here.

“Should work,” Derek agrees. “Where’s Parrish?”

“Upstairs poking around the treatment rooms. I’ll get him!” Isaac volunteers, nearly knocking over his desk chair in his hurry to get up.

“Sure you’ll get him,” Erica grumbles under her breath. She’s about as done with Isaac flinging himself at every hot piece of knot out there as Stiles is, but after catching Isaac sleeping in the office with tear-smeared mascara and ripped clubbing clothes the day everyone returned from the wedding, Stiles hasn’t had the heart to fire him. Derek’s ridiculous libertarian arguments about the Darwinian nature of employment markets in a functioning capitalist economy had only made Stiles more stubborn on the point.

Stiles clenches his jaw as Jordan Parrish comes bounding down the stairs with his boyish grin and smiling green eyes, abs of fucking steel in BDUs and a far-too-tight black t-shirt. Stiles had thought he was handsome over Skype, but he’s even more beautiful in person.

He’s not going to be _that_ alpha, not the caricature of jealousy and possessiveness and “passionate” rage. So what if Jordan had helped Derek buy the large red dildo Stiles found stuffed in his nightstand? So what if they’ve been friends since their freshman year? So what if Jordan looks so good that _Stiles_ wants to lick him? And who cares about a bronze star anyway? It’s only bronze, not gold.

“Derek!” He immediately folds Derek into a hug. “Wow, um, any day now, huh?”

“Three more weeks,” Derek huffs, though Stiles can tell that he finds Jordan’s horror at getting it wrong amusing.

“Okay, pretend I didn’t say that.” He braces Derek’s shoulders, scrutinizing him. “You look good. Happy.”

Derek nods, shooting a shy glance at Stiles.

“Oh, and here he is in the flesh!” Jordan exclaims. He pulls Stiles into possibly the most alpha hug he’s ever experienced, stoic back pats included. “Pleasure to meet the man who makes Derek’s stony corporate heart go pitter patter.”

“Jordan,” Derek growls in warning.

“What? He doesn’t already know you’re an old curmudgeon trapped in the body of a hot young omega? I’m sure he loves that about you.”

Stiles nods. Of course he does. There’d be so much less perverse joy in it if Derek’s buttons were _hard_ to push. 

“See? I’m proud of you, man. You’ve got yourself a nice, confident, _understanding_ bondmate. You’re out from under your sister’s shadow, helping run a company that’s actually doing good in the world. And you’re about to make me a godapa, right?” He winks at Stiles, while nudging Derek’s side pointedly.

Stiles knows that over Christmas Jordan had been in Afghanistan doing PR for the troop drawdown, but he didn’t realize Derek kept his supposed best friend so far out of the loop. Then again, if he’d had someone...anyone else in the loop, a lot of this whole situation could have been prevented.

Stiles braces for Derek to correct him: they aren’t technically bondmates, Derek is still at HSI even though he’s helping Stiles with the current workshop, and Derek isn’t planning to be in the position to choose a godapa. But Derek just smiles and says, “I think some of your recruits are arriving.”

Stiles examines the group entering, gratified that their wheelchair ramp seems to be working. He has information on all of the participants, but it’s one thing to read that Jason lost his legs to an IED and another thing to see him walk in on two metal prosthetics. And then there’s Chrissy, who has burn scars down half her face in addition to the arm in a brace, but Stiles is happy to note that none of his staff so much as twitches. The absolute least they can do in their business is to not stare.

Stiles’s nerves disappear the second he’s in front of the group, welcoming everyone and making introductions. He’s run plenty of classes, from solo heat tactics for young omegas to therapist training; there’s no reason this should be different. The crowd proves unusually attentive and they even laugh at all his dumb jokes (take that, Erica!). 

Derek perches himself towards the back of the workshop room, a very round and stoic sentinel guarding the door, standing occasionally to rub his back. Stiles can’t help but flash him a smile every time his gaze lands on him. Derek gives the smallest of smiles back, like he’s afraid to crack his disaffected professional mask. Still, it warms Stiles to the core, knowing that his omega is here, supporting him.

When it comes time to pair off for practical exercises, Stiles decides to pair the alpha with the fewest physical restrictions with Parrish. Braeden is different than the others in a few ways. She’s a former US Marshall and not an army veteran. She is also neither an amputee nor a paraplegic. A knife wound across her neck necessitated removal of both of her pheromone glands and part of her her larynx. Stiles encountered her when she submitted a question to his blog. 

Maybe he should have made a separate workshop for alphas with pheromone issues, but he had worried about her. Stiles hated the cavalier way she talked about never needing to help an omega through heat, because she couldn’t hope to attract one.

“Jordan had to take an urgent phone call,” Derek informs Stiles before he can look around for him. “Maybe Isaac--”

Stiles shakes his head. The last thing they need is for Isaac to try to seduce one of their clients. And, despite the injury, Braeden is most definitely his type. 

“I can do it,” Derek says. He gives Braeden his very fake, but nonetheless reassuring smile. “If you’re okay with this,” he gestures to his belly.

Braeden places her voice amplifier by her neck and says, “just promise not to go into labor on me.”

“I’m not going to go into labor. Why does everyone keep saying that?” Derek grumbles.

Stiles gets started with the other pair he’s supervising for the practice sessions. Jason and Wesley are a married pair hoping to conceive during Wesley’s next heat, despite the double amputation. Stiles gets them working with a sex swing at first, then turns back to Derek and Braeden.

“...she was worse than most,” Braeden is saying where they are sitting on a thick foam mat on the floor. “If you can induce enough heats from a young omega before they have one naturally, you can train their bodies into a perpetual low-level heat. The kids will probably die of complications before they’re 20, but there are always more you can traffic in. She perfected the process and she was good at hiding. The Desert Wolf had to be stopped. I had my opportunity and I took it.”

Derek licks his lips, the way Stiles knows he does when he’s nervous. He takes a deep breath, then tells her, “My alpha induced my heat once. It was the worst experience of my life. I...if you stopped even one...thank you.”

Braeden stares at Derek for a long moment before nodding. Rather than his usual closed off ‘I’m the alpha’ face, Derek’s gaze is open, his eyes shining with compassion. Stiles didn’t know he _could_ connect with someone so well, especially not in the ten minutes he and Braeden have been alone. Stiles wants to believe that this is all just because therapy is finally working its magic and Derek is willing to let his true self peek out from beneath the tough butch exterior. But maybe it’s just Braeden. Maybe _she’s_ enough to make him change.

Stiles tries valiantly to tackle the jealousy he knows is idiotic. He gets lost imagining the two of them together. Braeden’s dark serious gaze, staring into Derek’s eyes as she takes him apart. Derek’s strong hands digging into her back as she pounds into him. His jealousy is in the process of turning into arousal when Derek nudges him with his foot. 

“Okay.” Stiles takes a deep breath, reminding himself that he’s a professional. He can’t let Derek’s presence derail that. “So for you the trick is timing, more than mobility,” he tells Braeden. “Do you remember the seven stages of estrus that we went over?”

Braeden nods.

“Okay, so for you the most difficult will be the second stage - accepting a compatible alpha. An omega can obviously go through a heat without this, but it does reduce heat time, help keep blood pressure from spiking, and stimulate more pleasure for the omega. This period is usually foreplay tied to a chemical call and response. You may be tempted to use commercial pheromones, like the ones omegas use for unassisted heats, but I don’t recommend it in your case.”

Braeden nods again. She keeps the artificial larynx clutched loosely in her fist. She was talking to Derek, but she seems less comfortable around Stiles. Stiles gestures towards the device as he asks, “imagine a heat you shared with an omega before the accident. What would you do when you first entered the room?”

She closes her eyes, a small smile playing on her face. “Embrace him.”

Stiles nods. “How? Show me.” He gestures to Derek.

Braeden moves swiftly, but sensuously. Stiles blinks and she has Derek gently lowered down to the mat, one leg in between his and her nose pressed to his neck. Derek gulps, flushing in a way that Stiles _knows_ means he’s turned on. Stiles is, too. He holds the iPad he was using for his speaking notes in front of his crotch to hide the evidence.

“Now what do you smell?” he asks.

“Pregnant omega,” Braeden replies. “You,” she adds, knowingly.

“Well, Derek’s not the best example right now. But at this point, you’d probably smell a rush of something sweet and a little musky. I can give you a whiff of our sample pheromones a little later. Your body would automatically respond with its own pheromones. Obviously you don’t have these in your glands, but you still have an approximation.” He nods towards her knot, hopefully discreetly enough. “I would rub some on your neck before you come in. Don’t do that now, obviously.”

Braeden’s unamused stare mirrors Derek’s perfectly.

“The pheromones would normally do most of the work for you, but that’s okay. You just need to induce some of the changes yourself. That means lots of foreplay.” Noting the hungry way Braeden is eyeing Derek, Stiles swiftly adds, “also no need to demonstrate. But you want to start with lots of attention to the nipples, the neck, erogenous zones that don’t involve the genitals. Give it maybe ten minutes or so. This should get the bonding gland to rise to the surface. Obviously, you don’t want to bite, but once the gland is stimulated enough, you can use an acupressure technique to throw the omega into the next stage of heat. Let me show you for a second.”

It doesn’t take much to get Derek going these days, and the combination of the interrupted shower blowjob from this morning and getting manhandled by Braeden in front of his alpha has him close already. Stiles nearly sucking a hickey over his bonding gland is enough to produce the slight flush on his jawline and the sharp change in scent Stiles is looking for. 

Braeden looks transfixed. One of her hands is still gripping Derek’s ankle and she squeezes when Derek lets out a stifled gasp. 

“Smell that?” Stiles grins.

She nods.

“Okay, give me your hand.” He puts her fingers to his own arm. “Now give me a sustained squeeze, about as much pressure as you’d use on a grape without squishing it. That’s perfect.”

“Just like squeezing a trigger without firing,” Braeden replies.

Derek stifles a laugh at Stiles’s horrified look.

“You hold that for about a minute. And then give it a flick with your other hand, towards the bottom. Not too hard. Just a quick hit of pressure, enough to sting. Perfect. Now try it out,” he gestures to Derek.

Derek looks skeptical while Braeden pinches his bonding gland, but once she flicks it, he arches up off the mat, eyes wide. 

“Feel good, sweetness?” Stiles asks, giving Derek a quick kiss.

“Don’t call me that,” Derek grumbles. “And it feels like an electric shock.”

“A good one?”

Derek nods, though he keeps a suspicious eye on Braeden. Maybe this is too intimate a thing to share.

“He’s not in heat,” Stiles explains, “so it’s like a jump start to an engine with no gas. Now some of us like to give the omega a quick orgasm before knotting, to help them relax. But if you use this technique, you want to follow up with penetration and knotting immediately. That will carry the omega into the next phase of estrus. There are tricks you can use at the other stages that I’ll show you in a minute, but if you know this one, you can skate by on looks and good sexin’.”

Derek and Braeden share a put-upon look.

“Hey, I don’t like you two ganging up on me,” Stiles warns. “I’m going to go help these other guys. I’ll be back.”

The rest of the day-long workshop goes without a hitch. Parrish takes a bunch of photos for social media. Isaac manages to avoid getting tangled in a knot. Liam receives his coveted ‘good job’ from Derek. The entire staff and a fair number of the participants go out for dinner afterwards and, though he spends a lot of the time talking to Braeden, Derek is smiling, sociable. After a month of knowing them, he fits in with Stiles’s friends like he’s been there all along. It’s too easy. Stiles keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. He almost convinces himself it won’t. Until he remembers: if Derek doesn’t keep the babies...that decision will end this borrowed peace.

“Thanks for helping out today,” Stiles says as they pull out of the parking lot of the restaurant. Stiles had designed the curriculum for the workshop, but Derek had organized most of the logistics. “And I think you made a really big difference with Braeden. When she wrote to me online, she sounded so bitter. I bet she was a heat player, before her injury.”

“She was,” Derek replies. “She’s not interested in settling down, even now. If the Marshals won’t take her back, she’ll be a bounty hunter. She thought that she would have to choose between her lifestyle and sex. Now she’s not worried. You’re doing really good work, Stiles. It’s an honor to have been a part of it.”

“Hey, I realize coordinating a workshop for 11 people is far below your pay grade, but you did a great job. Everyone, especially Liam, loves working with you. Once you give birth, you’ll still be welcome here. Not to do more work if you don’t want to, but to spend time with the staff. I want us to be like a family and you’re,” he pauses. He doesn’t know how Derek will take it, but he doesn’t care, he decides. He has to put it out there, even though in all his talk of the future together, Derek hasn't said, “You’re my family already.”

Derek doesn’t respond. He lets Stiles take his hand, but stays silent, staring out the window as they cross the Bay Bridge, like he hasn’t seen the view hundreds of times before.

***

“How was your doctor’s appointment?” Stiles asks before he can even dump his backpack on the extra desk Derek had moved into the home office for him.

“Fine,” Derek replies. He’s staring at his computer, wearing ridiculously sexy naughty librarian glasses that make Stiles want to jump him, despite the fact that Derek hasn’t been in the mood for the past several weeks.

“Just fine? If I can’t go, you have to at least give me the deets.” Stiles hates that he wasn’t able to go along with Derek. In fact, he suspects that Derek deliberately schedules his appointments for the only times Stiles absolutely needs to be in the office. This week was the final physical inspection of the premises by the licensing board. Last week was during an investor’s meeting with Deaton and a few others. The week before he just flat out didn’t tell Stiles.

At this rate, Stiles’s plan to get Derek to see him as the children’s apa will never succeed. Then again, that’s probably why Derek hides the appointments from him to begin with. Derek must know he’d get attached to the idea of them as a family unit, Stiles as the attentive alpha. Maybe in his own stupid, twisted way, he thinks he’s saving Stiles from the heartbreak of getting attached and then losing them.

Fuck him. It’s already far too late.

“There are no deets,” Derek grumbles. “Everything looks good. I have to go in twice a week. They run a few tests and let me go. It’s really not a big deal.”

“ _Twice_ a week?”

Derek shrugs. “My standing Monday appointment is right when they open at 8am. You’re never even awake.”

Somehow Derek sneaks off when Stiles is still asleep? How is he going to be a good apa when his not-so-delicate omega heaves himself out of bed for an hour or two without Stiles even noticing?

“I could wake up!” Stiles protests.

Derek snorts derisively, but levers himself up from his desk with a groan. The tight green longsleeve shirt he’s taken to wearing around the house makes his condition almost comically apparent. Even though it’s rare for male omegas to deliver early, even with twins, Stiles can’t help but worry about it. Seeing a doctor twice a week is not normal. In the moments between thoughts, Cora’s insistence that Derek had almost died echoes through Stiles’s mind. He stays up late at night, sometimes through Derek’s first night time bathroom break, heart hammering with panic. What if he lets his eyes close and Derek is cold beside him the next morning? What if Stiles ends up killing the love of his life with a pregnancy Derek didn’t even want?

“No, seriously. You know the only reason I sleep in all the time is because I’m so worried about you that I can’t sleep.”

“Well you don’t need to,” Derek replies, matter-of-fact. “Everything is fine.”

“How do I know that?” Stiles is indignant now. Forget that he has less-than-pure motives. Forget that he desperately wants to see his children moving around on the ultrasound screen. Derek can’t claim to want him in his life...he can’t buy him a _car_ because he sees them as already part of the same package deal and then put up a wall when it conveniences him.

“Because I told you,” Derek snaps. Despite supposedly being hormonal, it’s the first time Derek has shown a hint of anger since they decided to get back together. A part of Stiles has known that their current honeymoon phase couldn’t last, but he hadn’t realized until this exact moment that maybe it hasn’t been a honeymoon at all. Maybe it’s the awkward family outing, post decision to get a divorce, but pre telling everyone about it. Maybe they’ve been walking on eggshells and he hadn’t even realized it.

“You told me that you’re fine. But you’d probably tell me that if you had gangrene and were about to have your arm chopped off,” Stiles insists. The sarcasm comes naturally, masking the sudden wave of anger. “I know that you almost died.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I didn’t.”

“Well, Cora seems to think you did and you won’t tell me anything about it. I know you think the babies have nothing to do with me or whatever...but I have the right to worry about _you_.”

“Well, you _are_ my alpha.”

A part of Stiles --a dirty, disgusting part-- shivers at Derek calling him his alpha. It feels like a hook grabbing him deep in his belly, yanking him taut like the moment just before orgasm. But Derek shouldn’t think that Stiles being his alpha makes him entitled to anything. Omegas don’t belong to anyone, despite how much the idea of Derek being his makes Stiles thrill. 

“No, I have the right to worry about you because I care about you, alpha or not. And since we practically live together, I should probably know a few things about whether you’re going to keel over from some unknown medical condition.”

“Fine.” Derek crosses his arms over his chest, because he obviously can’t make this easy. Derek never makes anything easy. Stiles wonders for a naked moment whether he can handle this for the rest of his life. But as soon as he’s thought it, he realizes that he can. Derek’s worth it.

“I love you, Derek,” Stiles pleads. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve already seen all your medical records up until the last eight months. Just tell me.”

Derek nods, but doesn’t speak. Instead he makes Stiles follow him out the door and into the nursery. Derek has been spending a lot of time in there recently, using the rocking chair to get the twins to rest when they wake him up with a kick to the kidneys.

Stiles helps Derek lower himself into the chair and then sits down on the rug at Derek’s feet. It’s awkward, but he’s used to it. There’s no other space for him in here. 

Derek rubs his belly as he rocks. It’s hypnotic, but Stiles is too nervous to be lulled like the twins. He chews on the string to his hoodie, even though he knows Derek can’t stand the habit.

“There were four of them,” Derek mumbles. His movements go from soothing to frantic, gripping his belly like a life preserver. He takes a few of those deep soothing breaths he and Cora have been practicing for the labor.

“What? Four of what?” Stiles had thought this was a pregnancy complication, but could it be that Derek was attacked? Raped by four big, raging alphas who have him scared out of his mind? Stiles’s fists clench involuntarily. Derek is _his_ and Stiles will....

“Four babies,” Derek clarifies.

Oh. That makes a lot more sense. Stiles forces his breathing to calm. There’s no need to get angry or….

“Did you say four?!” Stiles is proud of himself for all of two seconds, for knocking Derek up with _four_. But now there are only two. That’s the important fact.

“I was on fertility treatments for IVF and we shared a full unprotected heat. According to my doctors, four is actually a low number,” Derek clarifies.

Derek already looks tense enough to pop the two he’s carrying out with pure brute strength. It would be a kindness to not ask the obvious question. But Stiles isn’t that kind. Despite the bile rising in his chest at the mere thought of how Derek got from four to two, he needs to know. “What happened?”

Unshed tears make Derek’s eyes twinkle in the soft golden light of the nursery, but instead of wiping them away he lets them hang there, ignored. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

That’s a bullshit answer if Stiles ever heard one, but he doesn’t interrupt. He crawls up onto his knees and holds Derek’s hands in his, leans up to kiss him. “You are strong enough. You’re the strongest omega I know.”

“I thought I could do it.” Derek’s dead eyes won’t focus on Stiles, even though he’s inches from Derek’s face. “Omegas have quadruplets. It’s not _that_ rare. The doctors wanted me to do a reduction.”

“What’s that?”

Derek snorts. “What it sounds like. They wanted me to pick one to terminate. Triplets had better odds of having no complications. But how could I look at them and know that I chose for them to live and for their sibling to die?”

Stiles doesn’t point out that Derek had been ready to abort _all_ of them, if his story is to be believed. Clearly, whatever this is, it’s beyond rational. Then again, as cold and businesslike as he tries to seem, everything Derek does is irrational. “That’s terrible,” Stiles replies. He’s not sure he could make that choice. At least, _alone_ he wouldn’t have been able to make it. But if Stiles had been there… he imagines it, a doctor telling them that he’d have to pick a child to die so that Derek had a better chance of surviving the pregnancy. He imagines having to play god so that his other kids and his omega would have a better shot at survival. He’d make that decision in a heartbeat. Stiles is that cold at his core. For all his surface clumsiness, he’s the one who will make the tough choices. That’s why Derek _needs_ him.

“It’s actually very routine,” Derek replies. “With IVF, they normally implant more embryos than can be carried to term. If too many turn out to be viable, a reduction is performed. I just...I couldn’t do it the way those other omegas do. I’m not that strong.”

Stiles starts to protest, because it physically pains him to hear Derek talk about himself that way.

Derek ignores him and keeps going. “I brought in a specialist. He said that because I’m a male omega with a big frame, I had a good chance. I was young enough and in good shape. I carried all four for five months. Then one of them died. A boy. He--” Derek’s voice breaks. “He caused some kind of clot. He was in there, rotting or something. I don’t know. But I got sick. I had a fever and I was bleeding and he killed his sister too.” 

Stiles draws Derek into a hug. He’s crying himself, but Derek voice is the same dull monotone, numb but full of a million stress fractures, ready to break apart at any moment. 

“If I had listened to the doctors she might have survived,” Derek says.

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles pleads. “You didn’t know that would happen.”

“They had to cut up their bodies to get them out. The other two felt a surgeon move the dismembered parts of their siblings past them. I had a fever. I don’t even know if they’ll be...normal.”

“Hey, hey, Derek, it’s okay. You just wanted to protect your children. It didn’t work out, but you tried your hardest. I bet you took all the supplements and did all your prenatal yoga and everything you possibly could.”

“They aren’t mine,” Derek denies. It’s only now that Stiles gets it. It isn’t that Derek doesn’t love or want the babies. It’s that he wants them too much. He just doesn’t think he deserves them.

“You’re a good omega. You did what anyone would have done.” Not what Stiles would have, but Derek never needs to know that. He doesn’t need the blame that if he’d just come to Stiles, none of this would have happened. Stiles will keep him from feeling that judgment if it’s the last thing he does, even as he _does_ judge him. He can’t help it. “You thought you could carry them all to term and you wanted to do that for them. There isn’t anything wrong with that.”

“It’s irrational. I make decisions like this every day. You put your feelings aside and you assess the risk. You listen to your subject matter experts. You...” Finally, his voice breaks when it comes up against actual emotion. Let him feel it, Stiles thinks. Please, let him feel how much he cares.

Stiles is aware his laugh is sick, a twisted chuckle that belies his darker side. He can’t help himself. The words just tumble out even though he knows confrontation only makes Derek more stubborn. “You can’t say this is business. That’s the whole problem. It isn’t business. You can’t sign away my feelings in a contract or promise your firstborn children to your sister like a twisted fairy tale. You can love our children, if you would just--”

“This conversation is over,” Derek says, the steel returning to his voice. “You promised me you wouldn’t ask me to keep them.” He finally meets Stiles’s eyes head on, expression pinched with determination. “Are you going back on that promise?”

 _Yes_ , Stiles wants to say. He wants to take it back every day. But he can’t risk losing both Derek and his children. Once again, Derek has all the power and Stiles has none. He’ll have to be subtle, even if it kills him. He can’t give up.

“No,” Stiles says, lying. He’ll ask Derek to keep them. Just not now, when Derek has no chance of listening.

“Well now you know what happened,” Derek sighs. “I’m going for a walk. By myself. Help me out of this chair and don’t follow me.”

Stiles worries every moment Derek is away, but he lets him. What choice does he have?

***

Winter in Beacon Hills can be gorgeous, with bright, clear skies and just the right amount of chill in the air. It can also be dreary and grey, covered in a perpetual blanket of horror-movie fog. Stiles can’t tell which it’s going to be as they pull into Apa’s driveway under the cover of night. The ground is damp and the air filled with that rain-fresh scent. The cold clings, so Stiles pulls Derek close against him as they walk the few yards to the door. 

They could have done this “babymoon” in Monterey as Lydia intended, or down in Santa Barbara. That way Derek wouldn’t have to see the sad, sleepy town where Stiles grew up. Stiles wouldn’t have to apologize for the fog or for the damp. They might even see some whales. Maybe then, when Stiles asks Derek one last time to reconsider keeping the babies, he’d say yes. 

But Cora has assured him that Derek will find the old burnt out shell of a house out in the preserve just as romantic - like the haunted tours Derek and Laura used to always run away to while on family vacation. And maybe, if apa can behave himself, Derek can see that he’d be part of two families, ready to support him and the kids. Maybe if he can just see how much they’ll be loved, he’ll change his mind.

Apa opens the door with a smile on his face. He looks tired, but maybe it’s just age. Stiles has been gone long enough to miss his apa getting old. “About time you showed up--” Apa trails off, staring at Derek. “Stiles, why didn’t you tell me? Your omega is pregnant! I’m going to be a grandapa?”

Stiles winces. He should have said something. He wanted to, but he thought maybe Derek would change his mind before it came to this. It was a vain, stupid hope, but he couldn’t have explained the truth to his apa. He would never understand. He’d see Derek hurting his son and he‘d make his disapproval known and Stiles can’t add that to the pile of things Derek is already dealing with. He can’t.

Stiles is just about to open his mouth to burst his apa’s bubble, when Derek steps in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stilinski. I hate to disappoint you. These are my sister’s kids. She’s gay and I promised to help her and her partner, even before I got involved with Stiles.”

It isn’t even a lie. Stiles is both impressed and disgusted at how easily the deception rolls off Derek’s tongue. Actually he’s mostly just impressed. 

Apa’s face falls and Stiles feels his disappointment like he’s seven years old again and has just broken Aunt Beatrice’s decorative gravy boat. Only this time it’s worse, because he’s not a hyperactive little brat clearly in the wrong. He wants his apa to be grandapa to those kids as much as anyone.

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me, kid?” apa complains. “You won’t let me eat bacon to protect my cholesterol, and then you nearly give me a heart attack?”

Derek adds his own glare to apa’s outrage. That’s fair, Stiles supposes. He could see how the question could have seemed a little...ambush-y...or at the very least ambush-adjacent.

“Sorry, apa. You were enjoying Christmas with Scott and Allison and Dahlia. It didn’t seem like the right time.”

It’s a paper thin excuse and they all know it. Apa’s eyes narrow: there will be a reckoning. Just not until Derek is out of earshot. Apa is a gentleman at heart and he won’t force the issue if it might mean upsetting the pregnant omega. The thought makes Stiles’s blood boil. Derek doesn’t need to be coddled.

“You have been too busy for your old man, lately,” Apa chuckles. “He’s opening his own business,” he says to Derek.

“Jesus, Apa, he _knows_ ,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek was one of my first investors.”

Apa’s eyebrows skyrocket. “Oh?” 

Stiles wishes he didn’t see it, that he could just be oblivious. As he ushers them into the dining room, Apa takes in Derek’s cashmere scarf, the Burberry jacket, the trendy leather boots two sizes up that Ethan had fetched within an hour when Derek complained about his feet swelling. Apa’s brow furrows and Stiles’s heart sinks. They’ve always been a proudly middle-class family in the kind of mountain town where people with trust funds settle down for their faux rural dream. The rich and entitled are the people apa grapples with every day. He’s even forced to be polite when the worst of them refuse to be treated like the criminals they are.

Bad enough Stiles fled to the big, fancy city, but now he can see the disappointment in his apa’s eyes: he’s becoming part of a world his apa understands just well enough to hate. Stiles wants to rail against him. It doesn’t matter that Derek comes from money. That doesn’t make him bad. Just because years of having to walk on eggshells to protect rich egos have made his apa bitter, Stiles doesn’t have to fall prey to the same thinking. Except he _does_ see how Derek’s entitlement wreaks havoc on their lives...probably always will.

“So you’re an investor?” Apa says. “What do they call it nowadays? Venture capitalist?”

Derek laughs, oblivious to the subtle dig. “No. You’d have my whole board of directors laughing if they heard that. I’m too risk averse. Better I stick to an operations role. I just believe in Stiles and his company, and I had the money.” He shrugs, like the hundreds of thousands of dollars he’s spent on Stiles are a kickstarter contribution.

“Derek helped me organize a workshop for injured veterans,” Stiles interjects. “I mean, he’s a VP at a huge company, so he’s good at organizing things.”

“I see.” The scrutiny from his apa is crushing. Stiles wrings his hands. He flails a little. Five minutes back home and he’s right back to being the hyperactive spaz of his youth. Derek casts a sharp look at the way he starts playing with the napkin holder on his place setting. “I guess I can see why Stiles likes you. He’s always been interested in the powerful alpha’s alpha types. Why would he want something different in an omega?”

Derek frowns, but he doesn’t say anything, just lowers himself heavily down into one of the old wooden seats at the table. Stiles’s initials and “Kiss my shiny metal ass!” are still etched into the bottom of the one with the wobbly front leg.

Stiles is about to object when Ruth comes flying into the room, her curly brown hair still wet from the bath. “Unca Derek!” she shouts, falling into Derek’s knees. 

“Hello, Princess,” Derek says looking soft with awe. Ruth has grown since Derek saw her last. In fact, Stiles is surprised she still remembers him. 

“Your tummy is _huuuuuuge_ ,” Ruth marvels, poking at it.

Derek winces, but answers. “That’s because there are two little babies in there.”

“Babies?” Ruth asks. “Cousins?” 

Derek shoots a panicked look at Stiles, but Apa steps in and says, “my step-son just had a baby and though Ruth is technically her aunt, we decided that with them being so close in age we’d just call them cousins. She’s fascinated by babies. Probably end up an omega, my girl.”

“You didn’t get her chromosome tested?” Derek asks. It’s a reasonable question. Stiles had been surprised as well, considering his apa’s traditionalist values.

“No. Melissa made a good case not to, for now. We’ll probably do it when she’s near puberty so there aren’t any surprises. I can see the advantage of a gender neutral childhood, however.”

Stiles grits his teeth. Just another thing that Apa is willing to give his new family that he didn’t give Stiles.

“These two will have the same,” Derek replies with a tight smile. 

“Derek!” Melissa exclaims. She’s wearing her scrubs, ready for the night shift. She pulls Derek into a tight hug that he returns with painful awkwardness. “It’s so great to finally meet you! You’ve made Stiles so happy and Ruth just adores you. I never got a chance to thank you for looking after her.”

“It was my pleasure,” Derek replies. This time, his smile is genuine.

“So, I take it--” she beings, staring down at Derek’s stomach.

“He’s carrying twins for his alpha sister,” Apa supplies. Stiles is glad. It’s one thing to lie to his apa and another to lie to Melissa.

“Oh! That’s very kind of you, Derek, to go through the hassles of pregnancy for your sister. I only had singletons, but it was quite a trial both times. This one,” she tickles Ruth, “did _not_ want to come out until she weighed ten pounds!”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Derek agrees. His voice is stilted, careful. Stiles squirms. Melissa and his apa will probably never know how _not easy_ it’s been.

Apa sighs. “I guess this means we can’t expect more grandbabies right away. You probably need a breather.”

“John!” Melissa scolds. “You should know better than to ask an omega in the third trimester with twins about the next babies! I’m sure they’ll get around to it when the time comes.”

Stiles winces. There will be no ‘getting around to it.’ Derek doesn’t even want the children they already have. “Actually--” he begins. Better to let them know now than get their hopes up.

“Melissa is right,” Derek interrupts. “It’s the last thing I want to think about right now. I’m just surviving the next two weeks, but when the time is right….”

Stiles _knows_ that Derek is just saying that because that’s what any omega would say when meeting his prospective in-laws for the first time, but he can’t help the small flutter in his chest at the thought. Maybe not now, but maybe one day, once they’re an established couple, with a house and stable careers and buckets of therapy, they can revisit the idea of children. There’s hope. 

There’s hope and he can’t help but hate Derek a little bit for it. These children are just as much theirs as any future children might be. Just because they couldn’t have come at a worse time doesn’t mean Derek can just write them off. If Derek doesn’t change his mind about the babies, Stiles has no idea what he’ll do. He worries that at that point his heart might be irrevocably broken. As much as Stiles wants to have even future children with Derek, he’s not sure he could forgive him.

Derek must notice that Stiles has completely frozen because he does something uncharacteristic and pulls Stiles in for quick, sweet peck on the lips. Derek isn’t one for little gestures of affection even when they’re alone, so the sudden PDA is jarring.

“Huh?” Stiles splutters. Somewhere between the dark thoughts about the future and the feeling of Derek pressed against him, mischief in his eyes, Stiles has lost the beat.

Derek grins. Despite the puffy bags under his eyes and the way he’s bracing his hands against his sore back, he looks suddenly weightless, carefree in a way that Stiles has never seen before. Maybe it’s finally escaping the city and all its responsibilities. Or maybe it’s just another one of the benefits of therapy popping up without warning. 

Whatever it is, it has Stiles swaying on his feet. He bends towards Derek like a flower following the sun.

Apa pointedly clears his throat, but when Stiles and Derek jump apart, he’s smiling. Melissa doesn’t bother to hide the giggle. Stiles just hopes he isn’t blushing as much as Derek, whose cheeks, with the pregnancy weight, are almost cherubic.

“Well,” Melissa recovers. “Stiles, you obviously know where everything is. I made up the guest room, but, Derek, sweetie, if you don’t feel like tackling the stairs, we have a comfortable air bed we can set up in John’s office. I’m just going to pop the lasagna in the oven to reheat.”

“I’m fine,” Derek replies stubbornly. Stiles has a momentary flash of him falling down the stairs, but he tamps down on it. The last thing he needs is another argument about Derek overdoing it and the doctor had said stairs were fine at Derek’s last appointment.

The second Stiles has deposited their bags in the corner, he crowds Derek up against the closed door, kissing him until they’re both breathless.

“I hope you’re not expecting to get lucky,” Derek remarks dryly, though he doesn’t pull away.

“I love you,” Stiles counters, because Derek takes his breath (and all coherent thought) away.

“I love you too, but it’s not happening,” Derek grumbles, but his hands are caressing Stiles’s sides where he’s rucked Stiles’s T-shirt up. Then even that soft movement stills as Derek seems to get as lost in Stiles’s eyes as Stiles is in his. 

This time it’s Derek who initiates the kiss. It’s a contradiction -- soft and yet insistent, achingly careful but easy, chaste and full of passion. “Stiles,” Derek exhales on a sigh. “Maybe we should talk. I--”

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door. “Dinner’s in five and Ruth wants to come in, so you have thirty seconds to get all clothes on!” Melissa announces. Stiles would be embarrassed, if Melissa being the triage nurse when he accidentally got his knot stuck in an Erlenmeyer flask hadn’t maxed out his lifetime shame allotment with her. 

“Well, that’s a knotchopper,” Stiles groans soft enough for only Derek to hear.

He opens to door and scoops Ruth up in one motion. She giggles. “Come on, Babe Ruth, let’s show Uncle Derek my old room.”

“You mean this isn’t…”

If his omega wanting to have “a talk,” an armful of toddler, and his step-oma calling them out weren’t enough to kill all thoughts of romance, that reminder certainly is.

“You think my room would be seventies-suicide beige? This is the guest room. They gave mine to Ruth.”

“Makes sense,” Derek nods. Stiles isn’t sure he understands how _big_ a betrayal that is. But then his eyes narrow in scrutiny. He reaches out and takes Stiles’s hand. 

When he squeezes it, Stiles starts to wonder if it really is that big a deal after all. He has Derek and his life down south. He’s going to be an apa soon and even as his heart beats faster, worrying about whether he’ll have to choose between Derek and his children, he gets it. Of all the things he’d do to make his kids happy, changing the decoration and occupant of one room doesn’t even rate consideration.

Dinner is easy and pleasant. Stiles remembers that despite all of their issues, his apa is a fun guy. It had been only them for years and it’s easy to fall back into the rhythms of his childhood - teasing Apa about his diet, talking a million miles a minute about his current project while Apa stares at him fondly, the snarky banter, the affectionate smiles. 

Derek takes the third degree about his work and his family surprisingly well, without revealing anything relevant. Thanks to Ruth’s demands for his attention, he doesn’t even spend that much time talking to the adults. For Stiles, it’s a mixed blessing. He thinks his heart will burst, seeing how good Derek still is with her, how much his apa and Melissa smile fondly at an omega who would obviously take good care of the grandchildren they’ll probably never have.

It isn’t until Stiles has shooed Derek off to get ready for bed while Stiles helps Apa with the dishes that things get uncomfortable again.

His apa pats Stiles firmly on the back - an old-fashioned gesture that none of Stiles’s alpha peers would bother with. 

“I’m proud of you, kid,” Apa says.

“Really?”

“Of course! You’ve started a successful business, found yourself a beautiful omega, and you seem happy. It’s all an old alpha could want from his only child.”

Stiles beams. One good thing about his apa is that despite his tough alpha exterior, after losing Oma, he’d never wasted a moment hiding his affection from Stiles. His approval, however, was harder to earn. As a gay alpha in a dead end job and a string of casual affairs behind him, Stiles hadn’t done much to make his apa proud.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, taking the plate his apa passes him. Apa washes and Stiles dries. It’s been that way since before Oma passed. The rhythm of it is so familiar he could do it with his eyes closed. He tries that for about five seconds before he ends up dropping a pot lid on his toe. Maybe not with his eyes closed then.

Apa chuckles. “It’s good to have you home, even if my kitchen takes a beating.”

“Hey, I kept your kitchen in good condition for almost ten years!”

“Your cooking was worth the collateral damage, but don’t pretend the kitchen escaped unscathed.”

Stiles frowns. Looking at the head-shaped dent in the wall from when he and Scott were wrestling over cupcakes, he knows his apa is right, but he feels indignant anyway. Everything he did for his apa --the cooking, the cleaning, the worrying-- it was worth more than a few dings to the kitchen. The feeling of injustice makes his chest tight, his breaths panted and intense.

He shouldn’t have had to do any of it. At the time, he’d seen it as his responsibility to protect his only remaining parent. Now he understands that his apa never should have let him. But then apa would have had to take care of himself and he’s obviously incapable of doing that. The second Stiles left this house and his omega-ly duties behind, his apa immediately moved Melissa in to fill the gap. Stiles and Scott could have been brothers. Stiles could have actually grown up with Ruth. If only his apa had realized that isolating himself from his adult support system would put the weight of the world on the only other person in his life -- a kid who was grieving and didn’t deserve it.

Stiles feels the nails-on-chalkboard slide of his teeth grinding against each other as he thinks about it. How could his life have been different if his apa had just done _better_?

He still would have been attracted to other alphas (obviously), but maybe he wouldn’t have conformed to all the gay fairy stereotypes that his apa found so repulsive if his apa didn’t put him the the position of house omega. The least Apa could do is to show some fucking gratitude.

Apa, as usual, rattles on, ignorant of how Stiles is slowly working himself up. “I like Derek. I do.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Stiles slams a cup into the cabinet so hard Melissa’s decorative painted plate nearly falls off the kitchen wall. “He’s not like the omegas of my day, but then, there’s no chance of you going for that type.”

“Don’t sound too enthusiastic, Apa. You might sprain something.” Stiles wrings the dishtowel like he’d like to wring his apa’s pigheaded neck. Is it too much to ask that his apa could not be a disgusting throwback towards Derek? Derek has enough to worry about without involving his anti-omegaist issues.

“Hey, I _am_ enthusiastic. I was worried you’d never settle down. But Melissa was right, you just needed to find the right omega. He’s beautiful and successful and obviously fertile. I couldn’t be happier. I don’t care who wears the pants in the relationship, so long as you’re happy.”

Somewhere, beneath the anger that has every muscle in his body stretched tight as a piano wire, Stiles knows that the dorky grin shows that his apa means well. But it’s been too many years and too many subtle slights. Stiles wishes, not for the first time, that Scott were here with his sunny smile, ready to run interference.

“You just can’t let it go, can you?” Stiles spits. He tosses the drying towel to the floor in a show of impotent rage. “You said I’d never resist my biology and now you’re all smug because, yeah, I found an omega who doesn’t conform to all the omega stereotypes and maybe you were right and I was never even gay or maybe Derek is just so amazing that I love him in _spite_ of his gender and not because of it, but you can’t be smug...you can’t….” the words are spilling out, jamming up in throat and choking him on the flood of all the other things he wants to say, all the other little betrayals that he’d stored away over the years because his apa was all he had. He tries to suck back his gross, frustrated tears.

“Stiles,” Apa reaches for him, but Stiles presses himself back into the old cracked tiles of the kitchen counter. “That’s not what I--”

“I know!” Somehow that only makes it hurt more. He hates himself. He’s out of control, embarrassed that he’s yelling when he knows he shouldn’t care, but he can’t seem to stop. “I know you don’t mean it! Just stop. Stop. Derek isn’t just some kind of compromise position. He’s the love of my life and if you knew what I’ve had to do to be with him, you’d--”

“You could always tell me,” Apa interjects. His eyes are tearing up, too.

“What?”

“You could tell me. If you want someone to listen, I’m always here for you. I know we’ve had our differences, and you have Scott, but I’ll always be there for you.”

How dare Apa act like the wounded one. _Stiles_ was the child and Apa was the parent. If Stiles didn’t feel as though he could talk to his only parent, that’s on Apa, not Stiles. He doesn’t get to claim he was there, quietly waiting for Stiles to open up the whole time, like it’s all Stiles’s fault they’re like this. He wasn’t there for Stiles. If he had been, then there’s no way Stiles would be so fucked up.

“Sure,” he spits. “You were there for me. Just like you were there when Oma died?”

The words are out before Stiles can stop them. Fuck. Apa was never, ever supposed to hear that. It’s the one thing they don’t talk about: that Apa left Stiles alone to watch his oma die.

Apa’s face is frozen in a pale, grotesque mask. His anger at Stiles’s backtalk halted in an instant. This old, tired face, the sad eyes, the shocked look of utter pain, like he’s just been stabbed through the heart...that isn’t that apa Stiles knows. It’s some alien creature, twisted yet far too human. Stiles scrambles past the kitchen table, not caring that one of the chairs tumbles over. He flees like the victim in a horror movie.

He never should have come here. He should have known that as raw as he feels, having to give up his children in order to keep Derek, his armor is too tarnished to stand up to his apa, the one person who has hurt him more than any other. He slams out of them room, ignoring his only parent standing there, turned to stone.

Derek meets him at the door to the guest room. He doesn’t try to quiet him or rub his back or tell him it’ll all be okay. He just stands there, letting Stiles shake himself apart in his strong arms. If Derek weren’t due to give birth in two weeks, Stiles would melt into his embrace and let Derek support him, but the unmistakable press of his belly reminds Stiles that the pregnant person is the last one he should be leaning on.

Derek has already changed into his comfortable flannel sleep pants and poor stretched out Trojans Football t-shirt. He looks vulnerable, too soft to be stuck here with an old brute like Apa. He’s Stiles’s omega, pregnant with Stiles’s children and he has has to be protected.

“We should go. We should get you out of here. It’s too late to drive home, but there are a few hotels in town. There must be. We can--”

Derek grips Stiles by the shoulders, looking every inch the stern businessomega that he is, never mind the untrimmed beard and the sloppy maternity pajamas. “We’re not leaving. I’m eight and a half months pregnant with twins and we just had a long car ride. My feet are swollen and my back hurts and I just want to sleep. We’re at your family home and your apa is the Sheriff. Nothing is going to happen to me here.”

Stiles knows that. Rationally. But his heart is fluttering with jittery panic. He wants to jump up and out of his skin. He wants to open the window and climb out. He jiggles his legs and worries at the strings of his hoodie like he did as the hyperactive kid he used to be. It’s all he can do to not to try to pick Derek up and carry him out of here. He sits on his hands to still them.

Derek sighs. He sits down on the bed next to Stiles. He pries Stiles’s hands out and puts them both on the taut bulge of his stomach. “ _Alpha_.” That gets Stiles’s attention. Derek almost never calls him that. “I’m staying here. If your apa is making you uncomfortable, you can go back home. I’ll have Aiden pick me up tomorrow.”

Stiles knows that Derek is right and that he’s being irrational, but that knowledge does nothing to make him feel better. His skin is itching. His tears are drying wrong, stretching his face into a parody of the strong facade it should be. It’s too close, too sticky, too much.

Derek pulls Stiles into a hug, running his hands up and down Stiles’s back like he’s soothing a collicy baby. Stiles knows it’s patronizing, but he gives in. He can’t help it, with Derek’s strong omega scent suffusing everything. He keeps his hands on Derek’s bump, feeling his children stir and press against his hand.

Derek pulls back enough to rest their foreheads together, cupping the back of Stiles’s neck with one broad palm. “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Stiles mumbles with a wet rasp. It sounds stupid, now that he thinks it. Derek will think he’s an idiot. Maybe he is. He never should have said what he did. Especially considering his apa’s offense was so trivial.

“Liar.”

In a moment of horrible clarity, Stiles realizes that Derek means it. He really does think Stiles is lying. He’s slow to trust, burned too many times. To Stiles, his own acidic embarrassment is reason enough to deflect. It’s nothing, because what his apa said _should_ be nothing. Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s so upset. But, for Derek, the things that go unsaid have never been just an embarrassing overreaction. They’ve been secrets that festered into abuse.

Stiles gulps, swallowing his pride. He finally forces himself to meet Derek’s eyes.

“Stiles.” Derek gives him a shake of encouragement, just on the right side of rough.

“It’s dumb. I know I’m overreaching.”

Derek snorts. “Probably. But tell me anyway.”

“He’s happy that I’m settling down with an omega. That’s what he always wanted for me. He didn’t want to accept that I was bi and even though I still _am_ , he’ll never really have to accept it. He can smugly write it off as just a phase and write _you_ off as an alpha-y omega who I need because my oma died and I got too comfortable filling her shoes or some bullshit.”

“So what if he thinks that?”

“Well, he’s _wrong_ , obviously. He has to be.”

“Then he’s wrong.” Derek leans over and gives Stiles a chaste, yet somehow very distracting kiss. “Let him be wrong. If you’re afraid he’s right because he might be, then let him be right. But don’t think he needs to believe the same as you because he’s your apa.”

It makes sense. It’s almost too easy, though. Can it really be that easy? And Stiles doesn’t know that he appreciates Derek suddenly giving all this advice, like he’s the posterboy for understanding human relationships and not the kind of person who sends process servers to inform people of his feelings while he sits in a limo with his champagne and caviar. 

“Look at you, dropping wisdom bombs,” he says snidely, though he’s afraid he’s maybe not snide enough, judging by the fond look Derek gives him.

“What’s this really about? Why did you want to whisk me away from here?”

The shame heats his cheeks. He hates being so transparent. He can’t meet Derek’s eyes, like he’s a child, not potential apa material. God, he’s disgusting. But Derek deserves to know that. If they’re really going to make this work, they can’t keep their secrets.

“I said something unforgivable,” he admits.

Derek stares at him intently. “With family, unforgivable is a tough line to cross.” There’s a story there, but Stiles realizes that maybe Derek needs to help him. Maybe he needs to be the therapist and let Stiles be the patient. He shouldn’t shift the focus. He should let Derek help.

“I was alone with my oma when she died. I…shit, this must be a real great babymoon for you. I fight with my apa and talk about my dead oma and cry all over you. Not sexy.”

“No, it’s not. But we’re also in your apa’s house and I’m too pregnant to move, so I don’t think sexiness is the point.”

“Sexiness is always the point,” Stiles grumbles, trying to wipe the remnants of tears off his face. “Though I guess the point of this is that I was alone with my oma when she died and I could never say I blamed him. There was a massive pile up on the highway. He had to be there as a first responder. He had no way to know she’d die that night. I can’t blame him.”

“But you do.” It’s not a question.

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. What I just said sure as fuck made it sound like I did.”

“It’s your right to blame him,” Derek says decisively. Stiles splutters. He cringes, thinking that he would ever have the right to blame his apa for trying to save lives. This is the corporate raider Derek, the Derek who thinks it’s okay to deny Stiles his kids. “I’m not saying he should have left people whose lives he could have saved. But you shouldn’t have had to face that alone. He was the adult and you were the child. Let him shoulder the blame for that.”

Stiles doesn’t want to think it, but he can’t help himself. Maybe he’s been thinking it all along. The emotion flows through him, like the torrent after a dam breaks. The rage had been simmering all these years, closed down, escaping with the little slights, but never the big one. Even the betrayal when he realized how much his apa’s denial of his sexuality really hurt him hadn’t felt like this. But even as he feels swallowed up in it, choking on the bitterness, drowning, he can already feel the other side. 

It hurt. The tears are back, because even the reverberation of that hurt still cuts him to the bone even years later. He was so frightened, watching the light leave her eyes. He’s there again, the machines and the doctors rushing in, her body jerking up off the bed as they tried to save her, and he felt…. Jittery, panicked, all alone. It hadn’t felt real, because nothing like that had ever happened before. He kept waiting to wake up, for someone to tell him it would be okay. But the doctors and nurses all ignored him. They were so focused on their job that they didn’t notice the terrified kid huddle in the corner. He felt like a ghost, watching from outside his body, like a dream. Except he never woke up. 

He stayed in that place as they took the body away. He stayed there as his apa came striding in through the doors. He stayed there as his apa broke down crying, as he left again to find the doctor. He stayed there in that dark, numb place, looking up at the world from the bottom of the deepest well, alone in the room where his oma had died until a nurse came in to wrap him in a blanket and give him a hug. 

He wonders if his apa even remembers that. He’d only seen him later, as he came back from wherever they’d kept the body. His face was streaked with tears, but he’d hugged Stiles and told him he was sorry. He said they’d make it together. Everything would be alright, he’d said. Too late.

Stiles comes back to himself to find that he’s lying down on the bed, facing Derek, who is stroking his cheek, tears in his eyes like he’s feeling every inch of Stiles’s reflected pain. This is love, Stiles realizes, and it feels like his heart is cracking open even more. He’s moved past raw into this vast, terrifying, limitless feeling, like his ribcage has been cracked open and he’s laid out in an empty field waiting for the vultures to feed. 

He loves Derek with his whole being. And he loves his children, too, with everything he has. And those two soul-consuming loves are more soul than he has to give away. He’ll break himself deciding between them. He can’t think about that choice, even though he knows he might have to make it. If he thinks about it, he’ll fracture into a million little pieces. He’s fracturing already.

Maybe that’s how Apa felt. Maybe he saw Stiles in that room where his oma had been. Maybe he didn’t see him. Maybe he knew that he needed to put his son first and maybe he intended to, but loving both and losing one was too much to handle. There are right choices and there are pragmatic choices, but sometimes something stutters in a person’s soul and they can’t make a choice. They don’t have any choice at all.

Stiles can’t believe it took him so long, but on the other side of the rage and the grief, he finally gets it. His apa isn’t the only valuable object in his world, to be coddled and protected the way Stiles had wanted to do back in high school, but he isn’t the selfish betrayer who had half-assed raising his only son. He’s human and he was hurting, as lost and confused as Stiles was in the wake of oma’s death.

He’s known, intellectually, that his apa is human since he knew what the word meant, but now he finally gets it. His apa is someone Stiles can feel sympathy for. 

Not just sympathy. Before his heart cracked open and he let Derek in, his only love had been for apa and for Scott. He remembers suddenly that he didn’t put making terrible casseroles before getting his homework done because he felt obligated. He didn’t pour a bottle of Jack Daniels into the flowerbed behind the house (and kill his oma’s azaleas in the process) because his apa’s drinking was unfair. He didn’t even scream at him just now because he was being rude to Derek.

He did it all because he loves his apa. Maybe it’s because his apa has always been honest and direct with him, treated him like someone whose opinion he respected instead of just a kid. Or maybe because he’s a son and a son loves his apa. It doesn’t matter, because suddenly the gaping hole in his chest is filling back up again until he feels like he might burst. He loves his apa and it’s been so damn long since he’s said it with feeling.

He’s burning with the needs to say in now, swept up in the wave of generosity and emotion. He kisses Derek on the cheek and then rushes out of the room before Derek can even hoist himself up off the bed.

Apa isn’t downstairs. Ruth is sleeping quietly in her room. Melissa left after dinner. But instead of being holed up in his home office with a whiskey, like nights from Stiles’s childhood, his apa is nowhere to be found.

Stiles feels a moment of stomach-dropping panic before he realizes that the back door is cracked open, letting in just a sliver of night chill. He doesn’t bother to look for his coat, just rushes out into the fog.

Apa is silhouetted against the moody backdrop of the woods just beyond their meager little lawn. Under the light of the full moon, Stiles can see the gleam of his badge on his work jacket. A chill runs through him, even though it’s been ages since he was scared of the wild beyond his doorstep.

He rushes up to his apa, but in his mad dash he’s forgotten to figure out something to say. What is there? He loves his apa. He misses him desperately. But things have changed so much. There isn’t a magic phrase that can transport them back to the way things were. And even then, Stiles isn’t sure that where they are now is not just a natural extension of those good times, destined to grow sour. There was no watershed moment when the way they once were suddenly broke, just the inevitable acknowledgement that their old relationship could not be sustained. 

It’s Apa who breaks the silence. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he says, sounding weary for the first time Stiles can remember since high school. “But I love you. I don’t know how I stopped you from being able to talk to me, but I’m sorry. I want to--”

Stiles interrupts by launching himself into his apa’s arms. “I’m sorry, too!” He hasn’t thought enough yet about what he’s sorry for, but he knows there must be two sides to this story. Two people who love each other this much can’t get where they’ve gotten without blame on both sides. “I love you so much.” The tears are already flowing, drying like icicles on his chapped cheeks. He lets himself cry. It’s embarrassing, because he knows that it’s not how and alpha should act, but what does he have to lose?

“I should have made you talk to me even when you didn’t want to,” apa stutters. “I shouldn’t have tried to raise you all alone...I didn’t want to replace your oma, but I needed _some_ help. By the time I let Melissa in, you were off in college. It was already too late.”

“It isn’t,” Stiles argues. It can’t be. They can fix this if they just try.

Stiles’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket, but he ignores it. His apa is more important.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Apa asks.

“No. I’m sure it can…” He glances down to see Derek’s number flashing on the screen.

He frowns. What could Derek want? Maybe Ruth woke up and Derek needs help with her. “Hold on a second.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice sounds small and strained on the other end of the line. 

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to interrupt, but I think my water just broke,” Derek says, matter-of-fact as always.

“What?!”

“I think my water broke, which means I--”

“Yes, I heard you. Um, stay there. I’ll come to get you. It’s going to be okay.” It is not going to be okay. It’s too early. They were supposed to have two weeks. Stiles was supposed to make up with his apa and show Derek the cool burnt-out haunted house out in the preserve. He was supposed to take him to Jenny’s diner and romance him and convince him to keep the twins and now there’s no time and... “Oh my god, we left your bag at home. We don’t have anything. I need to call someone. Who do I call? Can your doctor get here in time? Apa, Derek’s giving birth. Oh my god.”

Stiles keeps babbling, until he feels his apa’s strong hand on his shoulder, guiding him back towards the house.

“I have my hospital bag in the trunk,” Derek interrupts. “I already texted Ethan while you’ve been freaking out. He and Aiden will bring all the stuff we need to take the babies home. He let my sister know and she’ll be on her way. I knew there was a chance this would happen so my doctor already forwarded all my records to a friend of hers at the birthing clinic adjacent to the Beacon Heights hospital. All you have to do is not hyperventilate while your apa drives us there.”

Then, true to form, Derek hangs up on him. Stiles would be angry if he weren’t so busy hyperventilating.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek gives birth.

Time skips. One minute, Stiles is running up the stairs to find Derek and the next he’s in the back seat of his apa’s cruiser, watching the corner of Derek’s eyes crinkle as he breathes out the pain. He vaguely remembers a conversation about Derek not being allowed to give birth back where they keep the criminals...maybe he insisted that they not take the Land Rover because, ‘it doesn’t have _sirens_ , Apa, do you want your grandchildren born on the side of the road?’

 

Maybe he should be horrified, he thinks. Maybe that was a slip, because nobody is supposed to know that the babies are his apa’s grandchildren. But he doesn’t care. He can’t think. As much as Derek is trying to hold it together, Stiles can’t stand to see him in pain. Fear is in the air, whether it’s his own, Derek’s, or just the leftovers of long-ago arrests that permeate the upholstery.

 

He wants to reach out to grab Derek’s hand through the cage that separates them. There are so many things he wants to say, because this is his last chance before Lydia and Cora whisk the twins away into their new life, without him. But time stutters again and now they’re following a redheaded nurse with pink teddy bears on her scrubs. Instead of feeling comforted, Stiles just thinks of the mutilated pink bear from Breaking Bad. He’s one sick fucker.

 

Derek is remarkably calm, all things considered. Maybe the classes he’s been attending with Cora have actually done some good. He had grumbled about being shuffled into a wheelchair to be taken over to the birthing center, but now he listens patiently as the nurse explains the various aspects of the suite.

 

The place looks more like a luxury hotel room than a hospital. The bed is dressed with a grey duvet and a stack of pillows not unlike the pile in Stiles’s old over-designed apartment. There are electric candles everywhere, with a helpfully-provided remote. As though being in labor requires _mood lighting_.

 

There’s a jacuzzi tub sunken into the faux wood flooring, a waterfall showerhead in an open tiled area, and support straps hanging from anchor hooks in the ceiling like in Stiles’s clinic. There are various other medical items that Stiles recognizes from the baby books he’s been reading behind Derek’s back - a birthing ball, a squat bar, a cabinet full of stress balls and scarves. There’s even an area with a sofa and flatscreen tv, as well as a mini fridge, a playstation, and a full magazine rack for people waiting with the laboring omega.

 

“Let’s get you a gown, and then you can hop up onto the bed,” the nurse says. Stiles already forgot her name. “I’ll give you a quick check and get the monitors set up. Dr. Geyer is in the middle of another delivery right now, but he should be done in about an hour to check on you.”

 

Stiles wants to ask a thousand questions - how Derek’s doing, how long will it take, what in the hell is the Playstation for…. But time slithers by like a ripple across water.

 

Stiles helps Derek step out of his pants. He pulls what looks like a cape over his shoulders - plush like it’s designed for cuddling on the couch, not for a hospital. The nurse tapes a device to Derek’s belly, with additional electrode pads that branch out to monitor both babies. The output pops up on a screen at a station near the bed. Stiles doesn’t understand what it means. He wants to pull out his phone to check, but then the nurse is talking.

 

Maybe he’s hyperventilating again.

 

The nurse gives him a firm pinch to the arm, which seems to snap him out of it. “Focus, Apa,” she says. “You’re in for the long haul. He’s just in the first stage of labor now.”

 

She turns to Derek. “Your file says that you reserved the full package we offer, which includes the assistance of one of our trained on-call doulas.”

 

“No, thank you.” The face Derek makes is more pained than during his contractions.

 

“Are you sure? Your records indicate that this is your first delivery. Having the support can--”

 

“No,” Derek growls.

 

“I think we’ll be fine,” Stiles adds. He doesn’t want to add keeping Derek from strangling a hippie to his birth to-do list. Speaking of which...where is his to-do list?

 

“Ok. Then it’s time to check your progress.” The nurse gestures to the hospital bed.

 

Once Stiles has helped Derek up onto the bed and the nurse starts readying the stirrups, Apa seems to realize exactly what’s going to go down. “So, I probably should relieve Tara of Ruth-watching duty. Babysitting is not an approved use of police resources.”

 

Stiles bites back the snide comment that he already had chambered in the barrel: didn’t stop you when it came to _me_. “ _Technically_ , it’s preservation of public safety. Protecting the public from you and Melissa if something were to happen to Ruth.”

 

“Or it’s maintaining the peace,” Apa agrees with a grin, “I love my girl, but she’s just a noise complaint waiting to happen if she doesn’t get her beauty rest.”

 

Stiles can attest to that. He hadn’t finished shopping by naptime once and ended up guilted into giving his Uber driver $20 extra in combat pay for surviving the ride home.

 

After Apa makes his goodbyes, the nurse wastes no more time, just flips on the lamp, yanks on a fresh set of gloves and gets right up in there. Stiles tries to take a peak, but the nurse just turns and gives him a shooing motion.

 

“Don’t worry, Apa, you’ll get to see plenty, once there’s more to see.” After a quick examination, she strips the gloves off and gives Derek a comforting squeeze to the calf. “You’re about 4 centimeters dilated already. And you said the contractions were still about fifteen minutes apart. Rest up, if you can manage it. Male omegas are unpredictable. It could be two hours or twenty.”

 

Derek nods. “I’ve done my research.” So had Stiles, but his mind is completely blank. He doesn’t even remember if 4 centimeters is a lot.

 

“Okay. I’m your dedicated nurse for this shift. My friend Art will take over for me around 8am, if your babies hold out that long. I can stay in the room with you if you’d like.”

 

Derek scowls at the mere prospect, but she doesn’t seem intimidated, laughing instead. “Okay, message received. We’ll be monitoring you remotely, but either of you can push a button if you need help,” she gestures to light blue glowing buttons placed around the room. “But let me warn you, sweetie, giving birth is not a solitary affair. The closer you get to the finish line, the more people will be running in and out of here. Enjoy your private time while it lasts.”

 

She gives Derek’s shoulder a final squeeze before departing. “You’re off to a good start, hon. Your children will be here before you know it.”

 

The nurse said it herself. Derek could be giving birth in mere hours and privacy is a luxury in increasingly short supply. This is it. This is his last chance. Soon the twins will be here and the doomsday clock will stop on Lydia’s ultimatum. Either Derek will change his mind or Stiles will have to declare his intention to keep the children and…whenever he thinks about it, his mind draws a terrifying blank, like the resounding empty white space that characters wake up in during poignantly reflective unconscious sequences in movies.

 

He can’t really live as his own children’s uncle without having it destroy him, but then again, being apart from Derek nearly accomplished that already. If only Derek would just wake the fuck up and _see_ how good their future could be. The need for that outcome burns in him like acid, mixing with the choking feeling of impotence - he has no control over Derek and what decisions he makes. It’s a witch’s brew bubbling inside him with no outlet to relieve the pressure.

 

He knows he has to ask. He needs to make one last desperate plea. Even though Derek asked him not to, he has to at least try. He can’t step into forever without at least making an attempt.

 

Stiles steps closer. His palms sweat. He’s worried that he might pass out from the pounding pressure, his heart pumping blood so frantically through his veins that he’s lost in the torrent. He clenches his fists. _Time to alpha up, Stilinski._ He can do this. It’s just the most important moment of his life. All he has to do is open his mouth. He can do it. His inner voice is screaming: _Just open your goddamned mouth…._

 

He opens his mouth, only to have Derek gasp, holding his belly and letting out a soft moan. Stiles’s jaw clicks shut. He runs up to Derek and grabs his hand. “Are you okay? Do you want the nurse? Let me just hit the button and…”

 

Derek’s yanks Stiles closer as he tries to pull away. Good to know that Derek is strong as ever, even if it doesn’t bode well for the bones in Stiles’s hand.

 

The contraction seems to go on forever, even though Stiles knows it’s probably 30 seconds at most. Derek takes a deep breath, then bites his lip, finishing with a swift, relieved exhale. It’s a bit anticlimactic, if Stiles is being honest.

 

“Does it hurt?” Stiles asks.

 

Derek rolls his eyes, but the answer is surprisingly sarcasm-free. “It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.” He shrugs. “It’s supposed to get worse. Later.”

 

Stiles nods. He remembers reading that too. “So…” he pops his lips. Now’s the time. Before the medical staff start piling in. Before Cora and Lydia get here. Time for the last desperate pleas. “So, I really--”

 

“I wanted to ask you something,” Derek interrupts. “About the babies.”

 

Stiles winces. It’s a conversation they both need to have, but he doesn’t know what Derek initiating it even means. He gulps. Maybe if he chokes on his own tongue right now they’ll never have this conversation and he’ll never have to make the choice he’s terrified Derek will force him to make and maybe…

 

Derek’s serious gaze shifts. He’s staring at the closet in the corner where the nurse hung up his clothes. It takes Stiles far too long to realize that it’s ringing.

 

“Are you going to get that or should I waddle over there?” Derek demands.

 

“Fine, fine. God forbid you should let it go to voicemail while you _give birth_.”

 

Stiles is relieved for the brief stay of execution…for the ten seconds before he glances at the screen of Derek’s phone. A call from Laura Hale cannot mean anything good.

 

Derek grabs the phone and answers without any salutation. His thick eyebrows draw together until Stiles wonders what would actually happen were they to meet - a fusion bomb, probably.

 

“What does legal say?” Derek finally asks, after two minutes of increasingly serious listening.

 

Stiles is close enough to hear the faint, but expressive murmur of Laura relating the answer. He’s useless, but he can’t back away. He should check out the mini fridge. Or try the Playstation, maybe. Or just play with his hands. Anything but sit there and watch Derek frown.

 

“I understand that Malaysia is perfectly within their rights, but it isn’t their practice to interfere with shipping traffic in the Straits….”

 

Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I know that you know that. Or the team told you. Satomi should know how to deal with this. She was head of Pacific Operations before I even came onboard….I _am_ busy….Does giving birth seem like sitting on my playknot’s lap to you?”

 

Stiles makes grabby motions for the phone, because what Derek needs is to relax for the long process to come, not get chided by his workaholic alpha sister about not being a workaholic enough. Stiles lunges for the phone.

 

Derek just grips the phone tighter, turning on his side so that the phone is between his head and the pillow, out of Stiles’s reach. “That was a long time ago,” he hisses. “Deucalion took care of everything. I just carried the briefcase full of cash.”

 

What? Now that sounds a hell of a lot more exciting than the bar charts he normally sees Derek looking at. Still, this is no time for talk of bribes. Derek is giving birth. How is that a difficult concept for Laura to get? Not to mention the fact that she’s had Derek exiled for months. She can’t suddenly want him to drop everything in the middle of his own labor.

 

But Derek doesn’t get it either, because he sighs and says, “Fine. Put Satomi on. The contractions are still fifteen minutes apart. I have time. Just give me a moment to log on.”

 

Derek puts the phone down long enough to try to lever himself up. When that proves difficult, he snaps his fingers at Stiles. “Help me up and then grab my laptop from the overnight bag. It’s in the side sleeve.”

 

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. He refuses to let Derek _work_ through the birth of their children. “No.”

 

“Come on, Stiles. I’m not joking.”

 

“Neither am I.”

 

“You heard the nurse. I’m still in the first stage of labor. I can do this. It’ll be a good distraction. Once I’m closer, I’ll tell Laura to fuck off, but I’m literally not doing anything else right now.”

 

We were having a very important conversation, Stiles wants to say. Except hanging a lantern on it never works with Derek. “It doesn’t matter! You aren’t her little omega pet. She can’t kick you out for getting pregnant and then expect you’ll be at her beck and call when she needs you. You need to rest. If the contractions aren’t that bad, then you should save your energy for when they are. You could be at it for another 20 hours.”

 

“How in the hell am I supposed to relax? They seized one of our ships which happens to be carrying billions of dollars of very sensitive cargo that we are transporting for another _government_ , which i can’t even tell you the name of without breaking the contract. Our crew is being held in a Malaysian jail. I can’t just sleep when they have our people.”

 

Stiles understands that. He understands that Derek needs to help if he knows his people are in trouble, but he also can’t stop the rage that is twisting through his gut, the sinking feeling that this whole situation is just a harbinger of things to come, even if he does somehow convince Derek to keep the kids - Derek at his alpha sister’s beck and call, his family on the back burner as he tries to be all things to all people and ends up short changing his own children. It’s an ugly thought. Stiles hates himself for thinking it, but he wonders for a split second if Laura is right - Derek can’t have it all. Maybe Stiles will destroy him by asking him to try.

 

“You are about to give birth. I can’t just let you--”

 

“Stiles, if you don’t put my laptop in my hand within a minute, I will rip off your knot. With my teeth.”

 

Stiles is tempted to resist, but Derek isn’t so incapacitated that he can’t just yank himself to his feet and get the laptop himself, not to mention the army of nurses and attendants he can summon with the press of a button. “Fine, but don’t blame me when you get amniotic fluid all over it,” he grumbles.

 

“My water already broke,” Derek reminds him.

 

“Blood then. Try not to get blood all over your laptop while you try to work through giving birth like a crazy person.”

 

Stiles attempts to retreat to the couch area, but Derek glares and points to the door. As annoyed as he is, Stiles can’t bring himself to leave entirely. Instead he grabs a chair from the reception area and parks it near the door until one of the staff tells him it’s blocking them from getting to Derek in case of an emergency and forces him to move.

 

He’s alone, he suddenly realizes. It’s only the waiting room denizens to keep him company: a receptionist scrolling through Facebook at the desk, a nervous couple waiting for their wheelchair ride to a different birthing suite. The alpha cups the omega’s belly tenderly; they have no idea that Stiles is even there. He’s surrounded by strangers. Nobody will understand the burden he’s under.

 

He never told Scott and Allison, for fear they’d spill it to someone in Beacon Hills. He definitely can’t tell his staff, though it’d be shocking if they didn’t suspect. He’s always been secretive, but he’s never felt _strangled_ by a secret before. And if he stays with Derek and gives up the kids, this will be the rest of his life. This tight feeling in his chest, like someone is wringing out his lungs--it’ll never go away. He’ll always have to hide this massive chasm of despair from the people he loves. He’ll always have to forgo their comfort and support.

 

He did that for years already. He pushed his apa away. He didn’t reach out to his best friends. He put his head down and dove so deep into his work that he let Derek pull him from his professional integrity, because Derek was the only thing he had.

 

It isn’t about the kids, really. Well, it is about them, because the pain of potentially losing them feels like a dagger of ice - numb and sharp at once, spreading out from his core to poison his whole being. But it’s also about whether he can live a life so confined, like a bonsai tree, growing out of a scrap of soil that is his devotion to Derek, pruned by their secrets, forced to be only just so...only what Derek can tolerate.

 

He can’t do it. Can he?

 

His phone vibrates and Stiles fumbles it in the vain hope that it’s Derek telling him to return.

 

 _How’s it coming?_ Apa texts.

 

Stiles doesn’t know why, but that’s the last straw. The piano wire that’s been wrenching tight in his chest finally snaps. He marches outside into the inky dark of the parking lot.

 

The wind howls through the forest, the cliche of a 19th Century Horror story. There are patches of snow still surviving beneath the branches of the leafless trees that stand sentinel between the neon glow of the Emergency sign and the highway.

 

Stiles bums a cigarette off an ambulance driver who is taking a break in a far corner of the lot. Stiles smoked for a year and a half in college, before he realized it was the stupidest rebellion ever and he couldn’t afford it. It was a bitch to quit so he has to watch himself. If he’s going to be taking care of twins all by himself, this sure as hell better be his last.

 

The cloying blanket of nicotine soothes his raw nerves. He savors the sandpaper scrape through his lungs as it files down all the rough patches in his being. He can be Zen, he thinks. Never mind that his fingers shake ash out into the unforgiving wind. He’s perfectly calm. His world as he knows it isn’t about to come to a screeching, explosive end.

 

Of course, that’s when he sees her - far too late to put out his cigarette.

 

“So you smoke. Great,” Laura Hale says. She emerges from the shadows, black power suit like a cape, red lipstick like the best noir villainess.

 

“What are you...how did you even get here?” Stiles has been deep in his brooding, but it can’t have been much more than an hour since Derek exiled him from the room. At least, that’s what’s indicated by the timestamps on the twenty or so times Stiles has texted him.

 

“I called Derek from the helicopter,” Laura replies casually, like that’s a thing that people even _do_. “Walk with me.”

 

Stiles realizes that he’s probably falling right into some kind of power trap in that Alpha one-upmanship game that he never learned how to play, but he trails after her, completely helpless to find a direction other than towards Derek.

 

“Does he know you’re coming?” Stiles asks. He’s not sure Derek would appreciate his alpha sister seeing him so vulnerable. Especially since he’s heard that labor can be gross.

 

“He won’t mind. This is _important_ ”

 

“More important than his children?” Stiles snaps. Because nothing is more important than that.

 

“Let’s see...we’re talking about a ship carrying 12,000 TEU, that’s 12,000 shipping containers, roughly half of which is guaranteed delivery within a three hour window and the very special cargo we are carrying for an unnamed government. Not to mention the cost of the ship itself, the opportunity cost of the _next_ 12,000 TEU if it doesn’t get loaded on schedule, whatever fines or bribes we’re going to have to pay, and the fact that my 14 person crew is sitting in a Malaysian jail. Have you ever been to a Malaysian jail? Because I don’t imagine they’re very pleasant. So, yes, so long as he’s not at the pushing stage, this is more important.”

 

“No it isn’t!” Stiles shouts. The staff in the waiting area look up briefly, but they must be used to the hysterics of waiting family and friends because they return to work immediately. “Nothing is more important than family,” Stiles hisses. When Laura tries to keep walking down the corridor towards the birthing suites, Stiles grabs her by the arm, yanking her around to face him.

 

She stares down at his hand until he removes it, but doesn’t try to walk away. “Just because you’re some corporate sea witch who abandons her own children, doesn’t mean that Derek has to follow in your footsteps! He’s fucking sensitive. Can’t you see that? Family _is_ important to him. He idolizes you. You can’t use that against him to turn him into some mini-you. Who are you to say he can’t have it all?”

 

“Are you done?” She crosses her arms over her chest, putting on a deliberately bored affect.

 

“No!” He really doesn’t have much more to say, but the bloodletting of his anger and frustration hasn’t come close to running dry. “How dare you take Derek, a fucking trauma victim, and tell him that if he just behaves himself as your good little corporate stooge, everything will be all right! He should be in treatment!”

 

“He is in therapy.”

 

Stiles knew that. Of course he did. “Well, he should have been for a long time. He should have had time to recover, not been stuck in a boardroom.”

 

“How do you know that’s not exactly where he needed to be? He was lost in self-doubt and hurting. She made him feel powerless. I gave him purpose. I put him in a key position in a billion dollar company. I showed him I believed in him enough to put our parent’s legacy at risk.”

 

“Yeah, that’s healthy. She used his omega qualities against him so the obvious response is to pretend like he’s not an omega at all. Cut off his nose to spite his face. When I met him, he wanted to get his omega parts cut out.”

 

He feels the hatred wash over him suddenly, burning through his veins like acid. This is all _her_ fault. Stiles was just about to talk to Derek. He was just about to convince him to keep the babies and now here she is, ruining everything, just like her neglect had driven Cora a coast away, had taught Derek to reach for a lawyer before he’d pick up the phone for a conversation. It’s her that’s hurting the omega he loves. It’s her that’s stopping Stiles from getting what he needs.

 

Suddenly, his back is against the wall. Her cheeks are flushed, her grip bruising against his shoulders, but her eyes are sharp as spears. “You weren’t there. You have no idea how he was after it ended. She brainwashed him and then got a life sentence before he could get it in him to stand up to her. Do you think, after that, I didn’t send him to therapy? He wouldn’t go and the few times I was able to force him, he wouldn’t talk to me or anyone for a week afterwards.”

 

Stiles’s jaw is clenched so tight he’s not sure he’ll be able to pry it apart. Derek wouldn’t talk to her so she just gave up? How in the hell is he supposed to get better when the people who should care about him won’t do what’s necessary to help him? “So you just gave up?”

 

She pulls back. He thinks maybe she’s winding up to hit him, but she lowers her voice into a near subsonic growl instead. “You think you know so much. You think because you perfected the art of sticking your knot in an omega and they slap the label of “therapy” on it that you understand the human psyche, but you’re nothing but a scared, judgemental _child_. You think I could just toss him in therapy and that would make everything ok? That he’d be where he is now?”

 

Stiles’s gut reaction is to fight back. What does she know? She’s hurt Derek. The evidence is clear as day. She’s the one who made him scared to be an omega. She drove Cora away from home. She’s probably even doing the same to her own children, all in the name of making money. But the insults stall on his tongue. Maybe Derek needed the army of lawyers holding him up before he could stand on his own. But when are the training wheels going to come off?

 

“I run a multi billion dollar company that keeps the global trade network literally afloat,” Laura continues. “Do you think this is my endgame? To have my brother so scared of what he is that he’d give up your children?”

 

Stiles gasps. She isn’t supposed to know that. Derek will blame him now that she does. She has him by the knot and she knows it.

 

She smirks, relishing the fact that she’s already driven in the knife and now seems prepared to twist. “Marin Morrell is our in-house counsel. Ethan and Aiden are my employees. Not to mention that Derek’s car and his phone and his credit cards and his laptop are all either linked to the company or his trust fund, both of which I control. And there’s the security firm that keeps an eye on Cora’s activities for me, because I’m not letting her disappear ever again. Next time it’ll be South America instead of Boston. Did you really think he could keep a pet alpha for months without me finding out? Or that I wouldn’t be clever enough to add up the dates?”

 

“Well, when you put it that way….” It does seem patently ridiculous that they could have any hopes of keeping this secret from her.

 

“And you’re kidding yourself if you buy that Derek thinks I don’t know.”

 

Derek definitely thinks she doesn’t know. Why else would he force Stiles and Cora to keep it a secret? Why would he lie to Stiles like that? _Because that’s exactly the kind of information-withholding, ‘I know what’s best so just follow along,’ terrible decision-maker that Derek is,_ Stiles’s traitorous inner voice proclaims.

 

Laura takes in Stiles’s inner conflict with an eerie grin that creeps onto her face like the Dawn of the fucking Dead. Stiles passes a shudder off as a spastic flail.

 

Laura looks less than impressed. “Don’t get me wrong,” she drawls. “Derek probably _believes_ that I don’t know, the same way Catholic priests believe that God needs them to be celibate - because believing anything else would mean that they’ve spent a lifetime making sacrifices in service of a meaningless goal. He’s stubborn and he could teach a master class in denial, but he isn’t stupid. He _knows,_ even if he will never admit it.”

 

“And you had to give Lydia and Cora all those baby gifts? Is that payback for keeping the secret or a strategic plan to force him to reveal the truth? You know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s cruel either way.”

 

Laura shrugs. “I’ll let you guess my motivations, but I can tell you that it has nothing to do with cruelty.”

 

“Well, it isn’t kindness,” Stiles mumbles.

 

“And leaving an omega pregnant and alone after abusing your position as his heat therapist...that’s the mark of true altruism.”

 

“Hey, I didn’t know he was pregnant. And if you’ve known about me and the pregnancy this whole time, you could have stopped it. At least I’m here for him now, not asking him to work while he’s in labor.”

 

“You aren’t the hero of this story, Stiles,” she snarls. “Neither am I. Now, I’m going to go in there and Derek’s going to help me with my little multi-million dollar problem for a few minutes and then I guess I’ll leave you to whatever you have planned.” She turns and grabs the door handle, but before she enters, she pauses. “Don’t underestimate him.”

 

Stiles wonders what it means that she can’t look him in the eye when she says it. He just plain wonders what she means.

 

By the time he works up the courage to shove his way into the room, Laura is holding up a red leatherbound notebook while Derek rocks himself slowly on the birthing ball.

 

“Are you working during a contraction?!” Stiles complains.

 

Derek shoots him a glare, which neither confirms nor denies Stiles’s question. “This is Deucalion’s old notebook. We’re sure he wrote the information for his Malay contact in here, but he left the book deliberately unorganized for a reason. Once I find the contact, Laura can be on her way. So come over here and massage my back if you want, but keep the commentary to yourself.”

 

Laura and Derek work together almost silently. When they talk, they reference business terms and past experiences that Stiles doesn’t understand. He knew he’d most likely be on the sidelines for the birth -- Derek is the one doing all the work -- but he didn’t expect to be the third wheel.

 

Derek’s contractions have been getting closer together, but they still don’t seem to warrant much more than a few grunts and rocking on the birthing ball. Stiles is getting ready to call the nurse in just to make sure this is all normal when he gets a text from Lydia saying that they’ve arrived.

 

Laura and Derek barely notice when he slips out to meet them.

 

Cora comes running to him from across the parking lot. She hooks her chin over his shoulder as they embrace. “How is he?” she asks.

 

“Working. Your sister had a work crisis in Malaysia.”

 

He’d swear Cora growls. “Spawn-of-a-bitch.”

 

Stiles winces at that word, especially because that’s Cora’s own opa she’s talking about. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t seem to think labor is that big a deal. At least not yet.”

 

She squeezes him tight again. “And you?”

 

“I think that labor is a big deal, no matter how stoic Derek wants to be.”

 

Cora pulls out of the hug only to roll her eyes and punch him in the arm.

 

“Ow! What’s with the violence?”

 

“I mean, how are you?”

 

“Well, my arm hurts, for one. But I’m not the one in labor, so I’d say it’s all good. Easy peezy.”

 

“Okay. So you’re not worried about Derek, or mad at Laura, or frustrated that the whole situation is out of your control, or excited to see your babies, or...I don’t know, freaking out because you haven’t asked Derek to keep them yet and you have probably less than a day before you’ve got to make a final decision? It’s all just easy peezy?”

 

Stiles deflates. “Dude, I was trying not to think about that.”

 

“Well you’d better,” comes Lydia’s voice as she stomps her way over, carrying two large bags, both of which she forces on Cora. Only Lydia would show up for the birth of potentially her adopted children wearing heels and a miniskirt. “Sweetheart, why are we all still loitering outside when you nearly killed us speeding up here?”

 

“Stiles hasn’t asked him,” Cora replies.

 

“Hey,” Stiles protests. “I could have asked him.”

 

Lydia arches an eyebrow.

 

“Okay, fine. I haven’t asked him. I was about to when Cora’s lovely sister blew that plan to smithereens.”

 

“So there is a plan,” Lydia replies. She snaps her fingers, motioning for him to expound on it.

 

“Um, well, no, not really. I just going to ask him.”

 

“And if he says no?” Lydia asks.

 

“He’s not going to say no,” Cora insists.

 

Lydia ignores her. “Stiles. If he says no?”

 

Stiles has put this off. He’s gone back and forth on the subject. He’s tried not to think about it. Making a decision feels too much like scheming and the last thing he wants is to be is another alpha that plots behind Derek’s back. But if he doesn’t make a decision now, then when?

 

He’ll just have to do it. He’ll think it through logically. “If I keep the babies, I’ll betray Derek and possibly never see him again. I’ll be another alpha that’s hurt him and he may never recover. But that gives him the opportunity to go to therapy and get better and come to his senses and be their opa. Maybe.”

 

“I hate to interrupt your little self-justifying monologue, there, but did it ever occur to you that he genuinely doesn’t want them?” Lydia asks.

 

“Um,” Stiles replies. “I mean, he’s been denying his omega side ever since he left his ex. But I know he loves them. He wanted children once, with Jennifer. And...when we were together, before I left, he wanted them with me. I hurt him and he’s scared, but once he sees them….”

 

“Maybe he’ll fall in love the second he pops them out, making your decision moot, but you have to admit the possibility that everything that’s happened has permanently changed him.” Goddamn Lydia and her reasonable tone and her reasonable arguments. “Getting to a more healthy emotional state doesn’t mean that he’ll suddenly want everything he did before. The things he’s suffered, including at your hand, cannot be undone.”

 

“I went to therapy,” Cora adds, though she still looks resentful of the fact she did. “It didn’t turn me back into the person I was before our parents died. Also, I made the therapist cry.”

 

“Yes, you’re an exceptional psychopath, dear,” Lydia acknowledges. By the sound if it, it’s not the first time. “But, my point is that of course you have to ask, but if Derek says no, you have to face the fact that it’s his choice. He may never change his mind and you have to live with that. You need to respect Derek enough to accept his decisions as his own, even if he’s wrong.”

 

Stiles wants to turn away. He wants to parachute out of this conversation. It’s easier to see Derek as a work in progress, with the final result being a well adjusted opa version of Derek. But Stiles fell in love with Derek as he is now, not the things he could be. Definitely not the things he was before Jennifer came along, since he never knew that Derek. The Derek of this moment is the one making the choice. Even if sometime in the future Derek gets to the point where he’s ready for kids, the kids are arriving now, whether it’s the right time or not.

 

Stiles would like to say that it’s a beautiful montage: all the moments he’ll cherish with Derek versus his hypothetical children and everything they could be. But his life isn’t a movie and he can’t manage to see it even that objectively. He can’t seem to make a decision at all, organize his thoughts into anything other than a messy echoing room filled with the shouted sounds of all his failures.

 

No one voice can rise up above the chaos and, in his delirium, as the “what ifs” and “maybes” and “buts” crescendo into a maddening cacophony, all he knows is that it’s not the idea that he’ll never see Derek again that makes him want to vomit. It’s not the betrayal that has him on the verge of a panic attack.

 

“I can’t give up my kids,” he whispers, hushed because he knows it’s the ultimate injustice dealt to an omega who deserves so much better. He doesn’t dare listen to the words as they tumble out into the world, damning him with his complicity in hurting the one he loves. But that’s the brutal, hard forged truth. “I can’t do it.”

 

Lydia nods decisively, but Cora looks torn. “He’ll be devastated.”

 

Stiles nods. Not even his special brand of Stilinski quixotic optimism can pretend otherwise. “Laura knows. As do you and Lydia, a whole team of lawyers, and I’m not promising I’d be able to keep it from Scott and Allison. We’d never be able to keep this a secret and I...if I take them, they’ll know their apa fought for them. I can’t have them grow up with their parents right there without keeping them. And if we do eventually have more kids…. How would you feel? How do I tell them that I chose their opa over them? How does he explain to them...whatever he can’t even explain to me?”

 

“There’s no justification,” Lydia agrees.

 

“But everyone fucks their children up,” Cora argues. “I mean, my parents were amazing. But then they died. If you take them, it won’t be easy. I mean, financially, they’ll have a trust fund. But you’ll still be a single apa to twins. Can you handle that?”

 

Stiles doesn’t know how. He’s terrified of the how. But he’s risen to every challenge life has thrown at him thus far. “I have to.”

 

Lydia’s big doll eyes narrow as she scrutinizes him. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to march up there, kick out Cora’s jackass of a sister, support the hell out of your baby-opa, and give him one last chance. I mean, let him see them. Let him sleep. Then ask. If he says no, I have a contingency plan in place. You’ll keep your children.”

 

“What? Lydia, what do you mean by--”

 

“No need to worry,” Cora jumps in, looping her arm through his as she drags him back inside. “He’s going to say yes. And if he doesn’t, you know Lydia has it covered. Let’s all just focus on getting the babies born.”

 

“You,” Lydia says, snapping her fingers the second they walk into the room. She points at Laura, who is yelling into her phone as she massages Derek’s lower back. “Out.”

 

“But we’re in the middle of--”

 

“Do I look like I care?” Lydia raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

 

“I have a ship with--”

 

“Don’t care. Derek is giving birth and you are leaving.” Stiles vaguely wonders if he could have gotten Laura to at least look like she was considering it, if he’d used Lydia’s strategy. Probably not.

 

“It’s okay,” Derek finally speaks up. “We found the contact. I’ve told you everything I remember. It’s time for you to--” he gasps, sounding like he’s in actual pain this time. Stiles rushes over to where he’s still sitting on the birthing ball and practically shoves Laura out of the way.

 

This time, Derek takes his hand, squeezing hard enough that Stiles lets out a gasp of his own. Derek’s scent goes sour with pain. Stiles feels faint with it.

 

The contraction seems endless compared to the previous ones. This time, Derek whimpers, his breath catching part way through, as though he can’t even remember to breathe. Derek is sobbing into Stiles’s chest by the end of it.

 

As soon as Derek’s breathing has calmed, Stiles turns on Laura. He’s been in pain and all you’re…” he trails off as he sees the look on her face. Her face has gone pale. She reaches out a hand. It’s shaking. “Derek?”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek mumbles. “This is what childbirth is supposed to be like.”

 

Laura looks haunted. “They weren’t this bad before,” she states. “I...I gave Satomi the contact. I can stay. I--”

 

“Go,” Derek insists. “Satomi can handle the bribe, but you should be on the next flight out. Be there when the ship arrives”

 

“But--”

 

Derek sighs. “Stiles is here. And Cora and Lydia and Stiles’s family, not to mention Ethan, Aiden, and probably Jordan. You don’t have to fill in anymore. My alpha’s here.”

 

Laura looks equal parts stubborn and bereft, which overwhelms enough that Cora is able to guide her to the door. “Don’t worry, sis. Go run the world.”

 

Laura rushes back at the last second, hugging Derek and pressing a kiss to his temple. “I won’t be upset if you keep them,” she murmurs. “I’ve told you that all I want is for you to be happy.”

 

“I know,” Derek replies. He sounds like he means it.

 

As she’s about to exit, Laura turns to give Derek a final wave. It’s the first whiff of awkwardness that Stiles has seen from her. Who’d have thought? She’s human after all.

 

Sadly, Stiles doesn’t get the time to celebrate his relief. Another contraction has Derek half shouting this time. The last one was less than a minute ago.

 

Derek grits his teeth through a few more contractions, through Lydia depositing a few of his things and poking around the room, looking at the monitoring equipment like she can read the future in the sine waves. Maybe she can.

 

Cora paces like a barely leashed animal and Derek eyes her warily. He doesn’t have to say anything. Stiles knows he’s holding his pain in for her. Stiles is just about to ask her to leave when Derek snaps. “Cora, sit down. Or leave. I already have Stiles’s huge babies trying push their way out of my body. I don’t need to worry about you too!”

 

His shout morphs into a moan while Stiles and Cora and Lydia stare at each other in shock. They all knew it was a meaningless fiction, but Stiles wonders if Derek’s aware that he would have just given away his secret if they didn’t all already know.

 

The pain seems to have made Derek oblivious, because he forgets all about it by the next contraction. They’re too close together. Derek’s in too much pain. “We should call the doctor. Something’s wrong. Why hasn’t a doctor been to see him? It’s been too long.”

 

“It’s been five hours,” Cora argues.

 

“Which is five hours too long! Can’t you see he’s in pain? It’s like 100% contraction at this point. When will he get some relief? Or an epidural. Do you want an epidural? Of course, you ridiculous stoic, masochistic--”

 

“It’s not in the birth plan,” Lydia says. She’s got a laminated copy that she waves under Stiles’s nose. “And it’s too late anyway. He’s clearly in the transition phase. This is normal. Calm down.”

 

“You calm down!” Stiles shouts back.

 

Cora actually has the nerve to laugh at him. Then again, her girlfriend is perfectly calm. Stiles is the crazy one. But what else is new?

 

“Stiles, it’s okay,” Derek replies, once the contraction has passed. “Lydia’s right. It’s normal. It hurts, but everything is okay. It just means we’ll meet our children soon.”

 

Lydia and Cora exchange another look. It takes Stiles a moment to realize why. Derek has never referred to the babies as theirs before. In fact, he’s been so circumspect that Stiles is surprised to hear him refer to them at all. Hope springs forth like a bandit, dragging Stiles’s imagination from the moment by knifepoint. The blade of desperation is sharp and he relishes the adrenaline the prick of it brings - they’re so close. Derek only has to say the words. They can raise the children together, get married and forget the torrid origins of their love story.

 

“Does that mean--” Stiles starts, but Derek grunts again in pain.

 

“We’re giving you two a moment,” Cora announces. “Good luck.” Stiles doesn’t know if she’s wishing Derek luck with the birth or Stiles luck with what he hopes Derek will say.

 

He doesn’t get much of a chance, because the next contraction is hot on the heels of the last one. Derek motions to be helped up, leaning heavily on Stiles as he waddles to the bed. Instead of getting in it, he leans over the rail, breathing deep through yet another contraction.

 

This time instead of screaming, tears just well in Derek’s eyes. “It hurts,” he says once it’s over.

 

“I know,” Stiles soothes. He rubs Derek’s back, feeling useless. His inner alpha is on edge, climbing the walls. He doesn’t think there’s a smell that he could hate more than Derek in pain. “You’re doing so good, though, babe. You’re doing amazing.”

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

“No. You are.” The books said to be supportive, so Stiles will support the fuck out of Derek. “I’m so proud of you.”

 

Another contraction hits. “Proud for me being in pain?” Derek gasps in between gulping, terrible breaths.

 

“Proud because you’re here, doing this. Even if…” he stumbles over the incipient possibilities. He won’t say them. “You’re bringing our children into the world, Derek. Do you have any idea how mind blowingly astonishing that is?”

 

“Almost half the planet does it,” Derek retorts. “Fuck!” He grips the bedsheets so tight Stiles thinks he might hear them rip in his hand.

 

“And they’re all fucking amazing. Just because it’s normal doesn’t make it less spectacular.”

 

Derek grunts in reply. His hair is matted with sweat, his eyes glassy with pain, but Stiles isn’t lying: he’s the most beautiful, brilliant thing Stiles has ever seen.

 

“I love you,” he says.

 

Derek looks like he might smile for about two seconds before the pain returns. This contraction goes on for much longer. “I hate you,” Derek grunts at the end of it. “You did this to me.”

 

At any other moment Stiles would preen at the fact that he made his omega pregnant, but it’s a hollow victory now. He hurt Derek and he might hurt him some more once this is all over. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Derek replies, cupping his belly. Stiles wants to ask what the small, nascent smile means, but the next contraction seems to be the worst yet.

 

“Oh, god! It’s not...I can’t...Stiles…” he gasps. Stiles holds him as Derek cries through it. It gets worse after that. Derek can barely do anything other than cry. His stoic silence has translated to a slow trickle of tears. They won’t get a chance to talk, Stiles realizes. Derek can barely find the strength to breathe, let alone hold a conversation.

 

More people start coming in then, like the nurse said they would. She’s back, along with a doctor at one point and some other people in scrubs who seem to come and go as they please. Someone asks Derek if he feels ready to start pushing, but Derek doesn’t even respond. In fact, Derek doesn’t seem to be paying anyone much attention, which is why it’s Stiles that first notices the furrow in the doctor’s brow.

 

“What?” he blurts. “What is it?”

 

Before the doctor can answer, Derek outright screams. Suddenly, blood is soaking the sheets beneath him and alarms are blaring. More people come piling in the door.

 

“What’s happening?” Stiles shouts, but nobody is paying him any attention. He gets snippets here and there. “Hemorrhage.” “Emergency c-section.” “Fetal distress.” He doesn’t think he’s ever been this scared in his life. Derek is pale, his dark eyebrows are gashes against his ash white skin. His eyes droop as the many attendants start moving the bed.

 

But before they can get far, Derek sneaks out a hand to grab Stiles’s. His palms are clammy, the whites of his eyes suddenly flash with panic, but his grip is surprisingly strong. “If something happens….”

 

“Alpa Hale, we need to get moving,” someone prompts Stiles, grip firm on his shoulder. It’s a surreal moment...he’s Alpha Stilinski...Derek never took his name. “He’s bleeding out. We need to get him to surgery.”

 

“Stiles!” Derek shouts as they rip him away. “You’re their apa. If something happens to me, they’re yours.”

 

An hour ago, Stiles didn’t think he could have heard more beautiful words than ‘you’re their apa.’ Now, fear has him trapped in its putrid maw. Something’s wrong. Derek’s bleeding. Stiles doesn’t want to take the babies in a world where Derek doesn’t survive. It shouldn’t be one or the other, despite how much the universe seems to conspire to make that the choice. Why can’t he have Derek and their family too? Millions of people get to have that. Why not them? Was Stiles’s crime really so bad? And doesn’t Derek, at least, deserve better?

 

Derek gets swallowed up by the hospital, then. The doctor is still barking orders. A few of the unknown attendants go running off ahead. Derek’s nurse is leaning down, holding his hand and whispering to him. As the bed gets wheeled down the wide corridor, an omega in scrubs with purple balloons on them is holding Stiles back.

 

“They have to take him to surgery.”

 

“I should--” Stiles struggles. His heartbeat is accelerating, the war drum to make him fight. That’s his omega. His children. The man in the purple balloons is keeping Stiles from them. “I need to go with him.”

 

Adrenaline is supposed to make you strong, but Stiles feels weaker than ever in his life. He paws at the man, knees collapsing as he’s led to a chair, head forced down between his legs. Purple Balloons pats his back, soothing circles that feel like acid burns. He doesn’t want comfort. He doesn’t deserve it after what he’s done to Derek.

 

“You can’t go with him. We let alphas scrub in for more routine C-sections, but he burst a blood vessel. They need to get the babies out as soon as possible and then go in and repair the bleed.”

 

“I…” Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he cries all over the man’s purple balloons. It’s weird, having a stranger hold him through his sobs, but Stiles is adrift. He can’t lose Derek. His tears are hot, like jungle humidity, choking and rancid. His cheeks are on fire. The tears sting, but not as much as the anger. How is this fair? How can the universe get him so close to happiness only to rip it away?

 

He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost Derek. He thought he could raise the babies alone, was thinking he might only hours ago, but who is he kidding? He still feels like a child, living in a cramped apartment, with a business he hasn’t even gotten off the ground. If it fails, he can’t raise twins and work as a heat therapist. He’ll have nothing. Scott is in Boston. Derek will be gone. He can’t do it. He’ll be a single apa. He’ll...unless the babies don’t survive either.

 

If the wound of potentially losing Derek is a scalding burn, then the idea of losing the twins is frigid, cold as lonely death in the arctic night. His powerlessness is haunting, empty, like being hollowed out, a precision slice to the heart of everything that makes life worth living.

 

“I didn’t tell him I loved him,” he says. The thought comes out of nowhere, materializing on his lips mid-breath. “That should have been the last thing he heard.”

 

“He knows,” Cora says. He doesn’t stop to question where she came from. Purple balloons is talking to Lydia and suddenly strong arms are scooping him into a warm embrace. Stiles curls up in his apa’s lap like the child who was scared of the sound of the wind at night.

 

He’s been afraid for so long: of losing Derek, of being forgotten by his friends, of growing up. But he never let it show. Letting it show would be admitting it and admitting it would consume him. But his terror is justified now. It bursts forth from its embankments, righteously flooding down sluices and hollowing out canyons in the bulwark of the defiant mask he shows to the world..

 

“Shh…” Apa coos. “It’ll be alright, kid,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” They’ve been here before. Things weren’t okay. Apa didn’t have him. He let him forget a part of himself in that hospital years ago. Stiles doesn’t think he has enough left to forget another part of himself, to leave it here with Derek.

 

“Stiles?” the red haired nurse asks. He still can’t remember her name.

 

Everyone freezes. The only movement is Apa reaching out to squeeze Stiles’s hand.

 

“Are you ready to come meet your children?” she smiles. It seems welcoming, but it’s a mirage. He doesn’t know her name and he has no idea how much time has passed since they wheeled Derek away, but he knows that she wasn’t wearing a plain green scrub top at least a size too big when he walked in the door. There’s an obvious explanation - her old clothes are covered in blood. Derek’s blood.

 

Stiles rises unsteadily with his apa’s help. Lydia and Cora trail behind. “Where’s Derek?” Stiles asks.

 

“They’re still working on him,” the nurse replies. “When I left with the babies, they’d found the bleed and were already repairing it.”

 

“What are his chances?” Lydia demands.

 

“His chances are good,” the nurse replies, though her smile is restrained. “We’ll update you as soon as we know more. Now, let’s see your kiddos. We’ve got them in the specialty care nursery for now. Nothing to be too alarmed about, but given the course of the pregnancy and the fact that Mr. Hale won’t be able to nurse for a while yet, Dr. Geyer thought it best we keep them under tight observation at least for the night.”

 

Stiles nods, but it’s still intimidating to have to pull on a face mask and leave everyone else behind. The specialty care nursery isn’t just a line of little cribs like the one with healthy babies. Instead, there are two contraptions that look like something out of science fiction - clear glass boxes with circular holes on the side only large enough for a hand to reach through, with monitors on the wall above them.

 

This isn’t for healthy babies, a terrified voice in the back of Stiles’s brain protests. Healthy babies don’t need dehumanizing clear boxes and special monitoring equipment, feeding tubes and respirators. Stiles wants to close his eyes and hope that when he opens them, this will all disappear. Derek will be holding their children, an exhausted smile on his face.

 

But when he blinks he still sees the machines, a bored-looking nurse at a station in the corner, and inside the incubators….

 

“Oh my god.” He stumbles, grabbing onto the nurse for support. She eyes him until he rights himself and removes the offending hand.

 

“As you can see,” she elaborates, “your little boy is a bit smaller. He showed some small signs of respiratory distress, but is fine without oxygen for now. One twin is often larger and a little more robust than the other. Your girl probably doesn’t need to be in here, but we didn’t want to separate them.”

 

Stiles nods. He’s only half listening. He’s not even really seeing, his vision blurred as it is with tears. His chest is tight. There’s a lump in his throat. He can’t see anything but the tiny creature in front of him. He’s red, his eyes closed, and he’s frowning, but Stiles is mesmerized by the tufts of dark hair, the tiny fingers, the incredible detail of him: real, here in high def--his son.

 

He reaches through the hole in the incubator. It’s warm inside. His son curls his hand around Stiles’s finger, lets him rub his scent across his forehead and around his neck, barely stirring at the touch.

 

Stiles doesn’t notice she’s moved at all until the redheaded nurse is standing next to him holding a bundle in her arms. “She’s awake, so I thought you might want to hold her.”

 

His daughter has inherited Stiles’s small upturned nose as well as his light brown eyes. At the moment she doesn’t look like Derek at all. Maybe Derek had entertained the idea that they could stay quiet about the twins’ parentage, but not with their daughter the perfect image of Stiles.

 

Her skin is warm and soft and she smells absolutely perfect - the combination of Stiles and Derek, but with a freshness, that baby smell. On instinct, Stiles yanks up his shirt, presses her against his skin. She’s warm. She’s amazing.

 

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear drops down onto the tiny pink hat on top of her head. The only thing that could make this moment more perfect is if Derek were here with him.

 

“How’s Derek?” he asks.

 

“Still in surgery,” the nurse replies. Though how would she know? She’s been standing here with him the whole time. “You can bring her out to see the family. We’d like your son to stay in here for the moment.”

 

It hurts to leave him. Stiles is afraid that if he lets him out of his sight, something will go horribly wrong, the way it did when Derek lost the other two. But the nurse is ushering him out into the viewing area outside the main nursery.

 

“Oh my god!” Cora coos the second Stiles emerges with his daughter in his arms. “Let me see my niece.”

 

Stiles hands her over without protest, even though a part of him aches to let her go. Cora isn’t going to take her, he reminds himself. She’s done everything to help Stiles keep her, in fact. “She’s precious,” Cora exclaims.

 

“She looks just like you,” Lydia states. Her smile is a little brittle. Stiles wonders if maybe she was looking forward to keeping the babies after all. Or maybe she’s just resentful of the position Stiles and Derek almost put her in.

 

“She’s beautiful,” Apa adds. “But didn’t I hear you say that this wasn’t my granddaughter?”

 

Apa is frowning, but he looks more confused than angry, maybe hopeful.

 

“She is your granddaughter,” Stiles asserts. He may as well come clean. “I--” How can he even begin to explain himself? Is he going to have to live the rest of his life with his apa knowing the whole sordid soap opera history? “It’s complicated.”

 

“All the things you’ve had to do…” Apa murmurs, recalling what Stiles had said earlier about the things he’d had to do to keep Derek. The words fall like acid rain only to stop. Their eyes meet and it’s as though Stiles is watching whatever it is between them, the tension of the rebellious son and the disapproving parent, slip from his apa’s hands. He gives the slightest of nods, as if to say ‘There, it’s over. I’ve put it down.’ Of course the Sheriff in Apa will never let a mystery go entirely, but he smiles and motions to Cora. “Well, if she’s my granddaughter, then give her here.”

 

“Bye, bye princess,” Cora says. “TIme to meet your grandapa.”

 

Stiles doesn’t know for how much longer they stand around. Melissa shows up with Ruth...is it already morning? Stiles ends up in a rocking chair feeding his daughter from a bottle at some point and all he can focus on is her tiny mouth as it works at the rubber nipple, the quiet chatter of Lydia catching up with Melissa in the background. They take turns visiting Stiles’s son in the special care nursery.

 

“Mr. Hale?” Purple Balloons is back. He has a smile on his face. “Your omega is out of surgery. He’s in recovery now, if you want to see him. You can bring her with you if you’d like. We’ve already got a crib in there.”

 

Stiles thinks it might be the hardest thing he’s ever done - handing his daughter over to Cora, but he doesn’t want to ambush Derek, not after what he just went through.

 

Purple Balloons seems puzzled, but he lets it slide. Stiles trails behind him to the elevator and up another floor. It smells strongly of antiseptic here, but it’s quiet. Derek’s room is a nondescript birch-colored door at the end of a long hallway. The curtains that surround his bed are already pulled back.

 

Derek is pale, sinking into the soft hospital bed like he’s about to drown in it. There’s an oxygen tube running to his nose, an IV in the back of his hand pumping in a bag of blood, not to mention the catheter bag collecting at the end of the bed or the monitor clipped to his finger. At least the readout shows everything at 100%, the beat of Derek’s heart steady.

 

Stiles moves to a chair next to his bedside. Derek’s palm is cool and dry as he clasps his hand. He doesn’t stir.

 

“The surgery went well,” a thin black man dressed in blue scrubs says. “There was only one hemorrhage and we were able to stop the bleeding as soon as we got the twins out. They were born healthy at 5:07 and 5:08am, respectively. Your daughter was slightly earlier.”

 

“Will he be okay?” Stiles asks.

 

“Yes. He’ll need a lot of rest and there are the usual risks of complications from any surgery, but there’s no reason to suspect he’ll make anything less than a full recovery. The bleed was the result of some damage caused by complications he experienced earlier in the pregnancy. If the next child is a singleton, he should have standard chances of a normal pregnancy, but should deliver by C-section again.”

 

Next child...yeah right, Stiles thinks. He’s still in the dark about whether Derek will want these two. Just because Derek had said they were Stiles’s didn’t mean he saw them as his own.

 

Stiles doesn’t have his usual number of questions for the doctor. He just sits there holding Derek’s hand until his long eyelashes start to flutter. Derek wakes with a whimper, which Stiles soothes, running a hand through his hair. It’s greasy with the sweat from labor, but still silky smooth.

 

“Stiles?” Derek gasps. His hand goes to his stomach, which is still partially swollen beneath the hospital gown. But Derek must feel the emptiness or the lack of the persistent kicking he’d complained of so much in the last few weeks. “The babies? Where are they? Oh, god, what did I do to them?”

 

“You gave birth to them, you big oaf,” Stiles replies with fondness, though a part of him laments the fact that Derek’s first thought is to blame himself. “Cora and Lydia and my parents are looking after them.”

 

“Oh,” Derek’s face falls. “Okay.” He grits his teeth, looking down at his hands.

 

Something’s wrong. “Derek?”

 

Derek turns over, or tries to, at least. But he’s barely turned his head away from Stiles before he’s whimpering and grabbing at his stomach.

 

“Hey, hey. Calm down. You’ll pull your stitches, dammit!” Stiles lunges forward to grab Derek’s shoulder to hold him firmly in place.

 

Only then does he recognize the tears. He’s seen Derek in immense physical pain and in heartache. He’s seen him cry, but not like this. Even at his lowest, there was always a dam holding back the brunt of his emotion. Derek doesn’t want to inflict it on people, Stiles realizes. Or maybe he doesn’t want them to see. But all barriers are down now. They aren’t great big sobs. Derek is too quiet, too tired for that. But his face contorts. He looks so young, suddenly. Perhaps all people do when they are at their most gut-wrenchingly innocent.

 

Stiles is awkward. Derek, he realizes, has always been the strong one, victim or not. Stiles doesn’t know how to comfort. He doesn’t even know where to put his hands.

 

“What? There’s no need to cry. You did it. The babies are safe. I know you’re in pain now, but you’re going to get better. Do you want to see them? I can get a nurse. Cora will bring her and we can...I don’t know, get you in a wheelchair to see him. It’s fine. Shh. It’s fine.”

 

“I don’t want to see them,” Derek forces out between sobs.

 

Stiles’s heart stops beating. “But you said you’d nurse.” You said they were mine.

 

“If Cora and Lydia are going to keep them, then I don’t think I can see them. Tell them I’m sorry. I can’t see them and give them away. I’m not that strong.”

 

This is it. This is the moment. Stiles feels like he might forget how to breathe, but somehow he’s doing it. Somehow he’s here, staring into Derek’s eyes, clouded with pain. “We don’t have to give them away.”

 

Derek takes that as an invitation to sob harder. “You don’t. I know you’ve thought about it. If you want them and Cora agrees, I won’t--”

 

“You want them! Stop...whatever it is. You want them. I want them. We want each other. You just need to let yourself have what you want. What, do you think you don’t deserve it? You’ll be a great opa. I know you will.”

 

Derek shakes his head. His whole body trembles. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s from physical pain or emotional. “But I’m not better.”

 

“Better than what? Better than your sister? Better than your parents?”

 

“No. I’m not healed. I tried. I’m going to therapy, but I put it off for so long and now I still panic. I still do everything wrong. I’m still not good enough.”

 

“You are.” After all they’ve been through, they can overcome anything. Derek is good. He’s perfect in every way except for his self-esteem. Can’t he see that the only way he’s failing his children is by not believing in himself?

 

Derek shakes his head, but Stiles cups his cheek, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

 

Derek nods.

 

“Then believe me when I say that you are good enough.”

 

“I trust you with a lot of things, but you aren’t objective about this.”

 

Stiles doesn’t know how to be offended by that. Is Derek saying that his previous lack of professionalism means that he’s always not objective? Or is it that he clearly has an ulterior motive? “That’s not fair,” Stiles protests, because whatever Derek’s thinking isn’t true. He knows Derek is an amazing person who can more than handle being an opa the way he knows up from down. He doesn’t need to be objective when he’s just this damn sure.

 

“You love me,” Derek replies.

 

“Of course.” Stiles is happy Derek gets that much at least.

 

“You love me so you only see the best. You want me to get better. You’re an optimist. But there are some days when the only thing that gets me out of bed is Ethan literally carrying me to the bathroom and tossing me in the shower. Other times I panic. I just freeze because I feel useless. I don’t like who I am in the world.”

 

“You’re not useless! You--”

 

“I know I’m not. What did Laura just tell me? I ‘damn well can unclog the arteries of global trade and push two babies out at the same time?’ I know I have an impact. Probably more than most people. But even after months of therapy, I don’t feel that way. I may never.”

 

“You aren’t the person you were before Jennifer and you don’t get to declare yourself healed and stop seeing your therapist tomorrow, but you are already a good opa, because now all you can think about is doing right by your children.”

 

It’s so close that Stiles can taste it. Elation and frustration tangle in a high wire tango. If Derek could just get over his guilt, get over it just enough to see. It feels like an inch, a centimeter. If Derek could just look up and read the unwavering faith in Stiles’s eyes….

 

“But what if I can’t make the hard choices? I lost the other two because I was too terrified to do what was necessary. I was lost so I overcompensated. I did what I thought other people would think was right, but I didn’t know.”

 

“Nobody does! That was a roll of the dice. It would have been for anyone. Your real problem is that you were raised into a life where you’re expected to control the world. Your ama was the paragon of alpha decisiveness and you were young so she kept all of the messy parts from you. But then you lost your parents before you could see them as human. And you and your sister inherited the same pathology - the delusion that things not going your way is the result of you not trying hard enough. No matter how many lawyers you throw at it or therapists and child care experts you hire, things will get out of control. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad, but you can’t let the total fucking chaos that is life stop you from living it.”

 

“I love them so much,” Derek nearly whispers. “I’m not healthy enough to be the opa they deserve.”

 

Stiles laughs then. It’s not a tango. It’s duel and frustration is winning. A sick, sad laugh is all Stiles can manage. “All children deserve better than what they get. It’s like my apa...he fucked up with me. He let his pain and his prejudice get the better of him. But you’re the one who reminded me how much he loves me. I’m here. I survived his faults. Our children will survive ours.”

 

Derek pulls in the tears. He stares at his hands, clasped white-knuckled on his half-deflated belly. “I could have them?” he asks.

 

As though Stiles’s permission is even necessary. He takes a deep breath and covers Derek’s hands with his own. “You can have them,” he says with as much authority as he can possibly muster. “If you want them, all you have to do is say the word.”

 

In true Derek fashion, he doesn’t actually say anything. He just nods. He keeps nodding. Stiles tastes the salt of tears on Derek’s flushed cheeks. “Okay. Okay. Let me go get our children.”

 

He tries to pull away, but Derek grabs him. For a heart-stopping moment Stiles thinks that Derek might take it all back, but instead he kisses Stiles one last time. “I love you,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

The sight of Derek holding his daughter for the very first time is the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins are almost four. Life goes on.

Derek wakes up with his heart pounding in his chest. His dreams melt from reality as quickly as always, but a sense memory lingers, a profound longing for a smell he chased from sleep to where it dissipated on the morning breeze.

 

The light that spills in their bedroom window is still blue-tinged with night and the cold damp penetrates his bones in a way it never used to. Stiles has moved over in the night, huddled in a tight ball tucked up near the headboard. Derek is loathe to leave the warm nest of Stiles’s proximity, even though they are not wrapped together as they usually are. Once, he thinks he might have taken that as a sign of Stiles pulling away. Now, he imagines that whatever nightmare woke him probably pushed Stiles to retreat from twitching limbs or, worse, the scent of fear.

 

It’s 5:15am and Derek has inadvertently earned himself the hushed peace of the hours before the dawn wakes both the twins and the awful rooster in their neighbor’s urban chicken coop. He sits up in bed.

 

“Meatloaf,” Stiles mumbles in his sleep, rolling himself up in the spare blankets Derek has relinquished. “Man from meatloaf. Cronut.” 

 

Derek chuckles to himself. The decision of going back to sleep robbed from him, he has no choice but to stand and stretch. His back pops as he pulls on running tights and an old Six Sigma Seminar t-shirt, worn soft and threadbare. Even though the mating bond has mellowed his heats to two days of lazy need, this time of month, he can’t tolerate anything synthetic against his sensitive chest.

 

Derek grabs a protein bar on his way to the twins’ room. Stiles would chide him for being a creeper - sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, staring at them when they sleep, but there’s no more beautiful sight at this hour. 

 

Cassie has her stuffed wolf tucked under one arm, an angelic smile on her face. Nate’s brows are furrowed, but he always sleeps that way. Derek gently extracts his thumb from his mouth with a sigh. Seems as though the bitter solution Stiles has been dipping his fingers in is not the ultimate fix he promised. Stiles may blame Derek for Nate’s sleep glower, but Derek blames Stiles for his son’s oral fixation.

 

Today is no different than any other. The kids look as they always do. Except it seems like yesterday that Stiles was juggling them in his arms, begging just one of them to for the love of god stop crying. It couldn’t have been years since Derek was holding Nate to his chest for the first time, consumed with thoughts that he’d never figure out how to make him latch and he’d starve to death out of Derek’s failure as a parent. Now that Nate is almost four and only just starting to wean, Derek can’t help but laugh at his past self’s fears.

 

Staring at his children, Derek feels like his heart might just rip itself open. It always feels this way - tender, steeped in awe and cradled in wonder. He made these two beings. He carried them for nine months and now here they are, the perfect combination of him and Stiles.

 

Today isn’t any different, and yet the shimmer of leftover adrenaline from his dream has Derek feeling restless. He should probably use this time to read up on his duties as a chaperone to the California Academy of Sciences in two weeks. He leaves half his breakfast bar uneaten on the counter and heads out for his run early. The twins shouldn’t wake up for another hour and a half, at least, and Stiles is home in case they do.

 

The streets are wet with fog and dew and Derek’s joints protest the ascent up the first hill. He’s warmed up by the time he approaches an ivy coated wall, rounding the curve to the university. It’s too early for students and even the homeless are still huddled up in corners next to sleeping storefronts. Derek feels like the only person in this desolate, dawn world, with only the damp for company.

 

He puts on an extra burst of speed as he crests another hill, looking down on a valley of important looking stone and brick, glass of newer buildings, the empty, echoing halls of academia. His muscles burn, but the feeling from his dream gives chase. It won’t be forgotten, but absent context, it bleeds into stirrings of the perennial hole in the pit of his stomach - the monster that can never be fully satiated.

 

 _What would a normal person do?_ He wonders about his solitary morning. Would they stop to indulge in hot coffee and a fresh baked croissant? Run until their limbs are rubbery? Crawl back into bed with their sleep-warm alpha and fuck the hunted feeling away? 

 

Thoughts circle like vultures, picking at the cracks in these rare moments when neither alpha, nor children, nor work can shield him with demanding distraction. _You’re failing them_ , his ever critical inner voice reminds. What kind of omega wants to be out here by himself instead of at his children’s side? But he’s too practiced to fall prey to that tired thought. He’s quick to label it as what it is: negative-thinking, baseless self-loathing, undeserved guilt.

 

The thought dissipates, but it leaves its vitriol like exhaust fumes on the clear morning air. _Think of something else,_ Derek insists. He’s good at this part. _Think about the new LA offices._ The lease agreement to be negotiated, the month with Stiles home only on weekends while the initial training will take place, the report he needs to review before the investor presentation on Friday. Those are all good thoughts, better than some stupid lingering dream.

 

Derek is so distracted by his inner monologue that he fails to notice the slick metal grate on the side of the walkway, his foot slipping out from under him with a harsh scrape to his knee and thud on his shoulder as he rolls.

 

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asks from his right. Small hands guide him up to a sitting position. The omega has pale creamy skin, her mouse-brown hair twisted into neat dreadlocks. She must be wearing five different scarves and a knit shawl, but Derek can make out a sleeve tattoo exposed beneath.

 

“I’m fine,” Derek says, before he really has a chance to take stock. He’d like her to take her dewey blue eyes and her butterscotch scent elsewhere for the moment.

 

She insists on helping him up, despite the telltale bulge of a pregnant belly beneath her many layers. Derek decides he won’t ask her how far along she is. He’d hated the question when he was pregnant, but not as much as he hates uttering it. His scraped knee is bleeding and his shoulder aches, but Derek’s ankle downright throbs. He has probably sprained it.

 

“Is there anyone I can call?” the girl asks after she’s helped Derek hobble over to a short stone wall overlooking an anemic little creek. “Or you could use my phone.”

 

Derek gestures to his smartwatch, wondering once again why anyone would opt for the non-cellular version, even though it’s two hundred dollars cheaper. 

 

“I don’t think the health center’s far,” she offers, staring down at his ankle, where it’s starting to swell. “But I don’t think they open this early.” She frowns. 

 

“It’s fine,” Derek grits out. “My PA will come get me.” Aidan can get his ass out of bed, grab an ace bandage and an ice pack and maybe by the time Stiles wakes up, Derek will feel better enough that he won’t even notice. He sends a quick text.

 

“I’ll wait with you,” the girl decides. She spreads her flowing skirt out carefully and lets her feet dangle down, kicking gently. 

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“I have nothing better to do.” She cups her stomach. “Morning sickness is supposed to be a first trimester thing, but sometimes I still wake up nauseous. Can’t eat breakfast or go back to sleep. A good walk in the fresh morning air is a cure for most things,” she says decisively.

 

Derek snorts, but he doesn’t want to pick on all the things that can’t be cured by a walk...like cancer. Or decapitation. 

 

“Oh,” she says, voice high-pitched and lilting. She smiles, then grabs Derek’s hand, pressing it to her belly. He’s well acquainted with that particular flutter against his fingertips, but he resents how the memory comes unbidden:

 

He’s sitting behind his desk, having sneaked in with his stomach hidden behind a briefcase. Juan Fernando from Calaveras Securities is pacing back and forth in front of him, explaining why the corporate bond issue they were using to finance two new vessels wasn’t selling as quickly as planned. Since he’s safe behind the desk, he allows himself to cup his stomach.

 

His gasp stops Juan Fernando mid gesture as he points to the powerpoint. “Derek?” Derek has worked closely with Juan for years, enough to maybe be considered a friend. It’s genuine concern that furrows his brow. “Do you want to take a break?”

 

“I’m fine,” Derek says. “Sorry.” Except he isn’t fine. He’d felt the flutter in his belly before, but this is the first time one of the quads has moved against his skin. He can feel them from the outside, and it’s amazing, but instead of jumping up and making his friend feel his babies kick or interrupting the meeting to update Stiles on children that they’re both aware of, he’s alpha-less and trapped behind his desk, anxious that Juan will find out and start asking the usual pleasant questions about a mate he doesn’t have.

 

Juan pauses for a second, like he wants to say something. Like he _knows_.

 

“You were just telling me why I’m going to have to wait at least an extra month before scrapping the Luna Roja because we haven’t raised enough in liquid capital to finance my new vessels,” Derek reminds him.

 

Juan has the audacity to look stung, as the girl does now when Derek stiffens.

 

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m just so excited. You’ll understand when you have your first.”

 

Derek nods. He could protest the assumption that he’s childless, of course. Just because he’s out here running at the crack of dawn, or because he doesn’t look like an opa, or because he’s not jumping to grab a stranger’s belly...that doesn’t mean he didn’t succeed in procreating. It might make him a bad opa, but he can’t be the only one.

 

“It’s not a picnic, but I actually like being pregnant…” the girl continues. Derek only half listens to her reasoning. He enjoyed the connection with his children, even the satisfied feeling of having been bred for those few months between the morning sickness and the complications. She’s in for a rude awakening once she gets further along, he thinks. Nobody likes that part.

 

Derek is relieved when Aiden comes running full-tilt up the path. 

 

“Where’s the fire?” the girl asks.

 

“You said you were injured,” Aiden scowls, panting a little. “I got here as fast as I could.”

 

Derek thanks the girl and lets Aiden support his weight as he limps to the car. But despite the throbbing pain in his ankle, Derek feels detached, preoccupied, like his head might float right off of his body.

 

“Make me an appointment with Dr. Walker,” Derek orders as Aiden cracks one of the ice packs from his emergency kit. He used to resist, but after years of therapy and cyclical depression he knows it’s best to nip this weird feeling in the bud. 

 

“I didn’t know she did ankles,” Aiden says with a frown.

 

“My ankle is fine.”

 

“Okay,” Aiden says with a grunt. “Because I can get you an appointment with a medical doctor too.”

 

“I know what a sprain feels like,” Derek snaps.

 

Aiden grits his teeth, but he knows better than to push. Derek made the right choice in calling him instead of Ethan, who wouldn’t have been able to resist his opa-hen tendencies.

 

After a brief text conversation, Aiden looks up. “Dr. Walker is booked all day, but she can meet you at her office at eight for an early session, if you’re okay to drive over there that early.”

 

Derek checks his watch. It’s 6:20 and his chest is starting to feel heavy in preparation for Nate’s morning nurse. But if he goes home, he’ll get sucked into the twin’s morning routine. Stiles will want to know what’s wrong and Derek won’t have an answer for him. Then, when he knows Derek made an appointment with Dr. Walker, he’ll worry. “I’ll pump and dump. Stiles has bottles in the fridge if Nate wants. We’ll stop for coffee.”

 

If Aiden is judging him for not stopping home to see his family, he keeps it to himself, handing over the breast pump from the glove compartment without complaint. 

 

They’re in a university town, so it’s easy to spot a coffee shop not half a block away that serves Derek an indulgent mocha latte and a croissant that he’s forced to abandon at the table while he sits on top of the toilet in one of the stalls of the restroom listening to the rhythmic whirr of the breast pump.

 

This is his life? Thirty-seven and staring at a bathroom mural of Jimi Hendrix with ice on his ankle and a machine sucking his tits? Shouldn’t he be looking out over the bay from the floor to ceiling windows of a corporate office, yelling at someone in Singapore?

 

Or maybe he should be sitting at home with Nate, cherishing the last of the nursing bond before it’s done forever. With his sister already refusing, Derek doesn’t expect Nate will hold out for long. But even though he knows that going home and coming clean to Stiles is what he _should_ do, he’s not that strong.

 

“Fuck,” he grumbles, slumping back against the grimey restroom wall.

 

He gives up on pumping after five minutes. Aiden doesn’t even look up from his phone when he comes back, just hands over a copy of Fortune and takes another sip of his coffee. This is the Forty Under Forty issue, which doesn’t have Derek’s name on it, like every year since he left HSI to run Hephaestus with Stiles two years ago. Laura says she’s trying to get him on some Omegas in Startups article, but Derek would rather have no press than that kind of press - a brightly lit picture with him doing something disgustingly domestic with his kids, questions about how he balances his duties as an opa with running an innovative healthcare company.

 

Dr. Walker’s office is in the city, so they drive out over the Bay Bridge. 

 

 _Early start?_ Stiles texts. _I woke up cold :-( Kids missed you._

 

After numerous fights about Derek’s working hours, Stiles knows better than to protest more than that. 

 

_Need to prepare so we’re free for this weekend._

 

Stiles doesn’t reply. 

 

“In the doghouse?” Aiden asks. Derek must be scowling again.

 

“Something like that.”

 

“I’ll let you out beside the office then stop by the house to drop off those old bottles for Cora. Your alpha’s orders.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Derek replies. “Lydia will want to buy her own. We’ll just take them back.”

 

“You want to be the one to tell your alpha that you’re outside the tax bracket for hand-me-downs? Because I remember when you tried to get Thanksgiving catered....”

 

Derek rolls his eyes. It hadn’t been so bad. He’d only had to sleep on the couch two nights and help Stiles deep fry a turducken. “I’ll tell him.”

 

“Or we could just take these boxes to the Goodwill,” Aiden counters. “He won’t know the difference.”

 

Derek feels a twinge in the pit of his stomach. Those were Nate and Cassie’s bottles. They don’t need them anymore, but it seems a shame to give them away. “You know what? Bring them over to the old house, but leave them in the basement.”

 

“Whatever you say, boss.”

 

Derek hops out of the car without acknowledging Aiden’s puzzled smirk. 

 

Dr. Walker’s office is on the top floor of a five story building in Knob Hill, which has definitely seen better days, but at least once a week - up until about a year ago - Derek had been comforted by the stained linoleum flooring and stuffy wood-panelled elevator. Its cozy lack of pretension has grown on him.

 

“What happened?” Dr. Walker asks the second Derek limps in. “I barely survived anatomy and physiology, so don’t expect me to do anything about that.”

 

“I’m not. Though I will take an ice pack, if you have one.”

 

“Give me a moment.”

 

Derek drums his fingers on his thighs while he waits, taking in the warm tones filtering in the windows, the relaxing fountain, and the orchid in the corner that should probably be replaced with an ordinary ficus for the number of times Dr. Walker seems to have killed and replaced its brethren.

 

“So, you always know my first question,” Dr. Walker says after handing Derek some ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel. “Why did you schedule an appointment today?’

 

“I was feeling unsettled,” Derek replies. It’s vague, but that’s what he’s paying her to sort out. “I had a nightmare. Don’t know about what. Then I got distracted this morning. I slipped.” He gestures to his leg.

 

“Hm,” she replies, not blinking her dark eyes. Derek used to hate the bug pinned in a display case feeling of her scrutiny, but now he’s accustomed to it. “What were you thinking about when you slipped?”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

“What were you thinking about on your run?”

 

Derek shrugs. “The usual.”

 

“But you usually don’t slip.”

 

“I was thinking about the usual things. I don’t normally think of anything on my runs.”

 

“Have you felt unsettled like this before?” Derek squirms. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t exactly catalogue his feelings, especially not the bad ones. Normally he’s busy. He doesn’t wake up early. The twins wake him up and then he doesn’t have _time_ to feel unsettled. But they’ll be starting Pre-K in the fall and after that they’ll need Derek less and less. Cassie no longer needs his milk and his little boy will follow soon enough. There will be no more pumping in dirty restrooms or bottles or….

 

“Stiles wants me to give the twins’ old bottles to Cora and Lydia,” Derek blurts.

 

“Is that a diversion or a spontaneous confession?”

 

“It’s not why I’ve been unsettled. I only found out five minutes ago. I don’t know why I wake up anxious. It’s Jennifer, maybe. There’s nothing happening now to make me anxious.”

 

“Except for Stiles giving the twins’ old bottles away.”

 

“I told you, I didn’t know about that last night!” 

 

“No, but you’ve known it’s coming. How old are they? Almost four?”

 

“They grow up so fast.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“Do you have kids?” Derek asks, for the first time.

 

“No, but I do know that it can be difficult to turn the page when we get towards the end of chapters in our lives,” Dr. Walker replies, impervious to diversion as usual. 

 

“So I’m anxious because my kids are growing up…. That’s what I’m paying you for? They’re 46 months, not leaving for college.”

 

“They’re growing up and yet you still track their age in terms of months. And what about the baby bottles?”

 

“We’re storing them.”

 

“For what? Doesn’t your sister want them?”

 

“No. She’ll get her own. I don’t think Lydia has accepted a single hand-me-down in her entire life.”

 

“Did you even ask her? I know you don’t need to be frugal, but a glass bottle purchased today is no different than one purchased four years ago.”

 

“I don’t...in case we have more, I guess.”

 

“Are you planning to?”

 

“What?”

 

“Are you planning to have more?”

 

“I…” They weren’t planning on it. Twins were a handful. Derek hated being pregnant. Running an expanding company takes a lot of time. He only even had the twins on accident and Stiles had to beg him to keep them. It would be hypocritical to have more at this point. Not to mention how much less time they’d have to devote to a newborn. Stiles might be able to work three day weeks now and have Cora and Lydia babysit, but Lydia’s pregnant and Stiles has either vetoed or scared away every nanny Derek has tried to hire, even the ones with PhDs in early childhood psychology. It doesn’t make any sense the add to the chaos.

 

“Let me reframe: do you want more?”

 

“I…no. Two is plenty.”

 

“But what do you want?”

 

“I want Cassie and Nate to be happy. I want Hephaestus to succeed so we can get quality heat support to those who most need it. We already struggle to get everything done. It isn’t fair…. It’s not responsible.”

 

“And if it were?”

 

“Aren’t you an omegaist? You know that Omegas don’t need to be trapped at home, barefoot and pregnant, to be happy.” 

 

Dr. Walker stares at Derek, cocking her head and blinking like that sparrow that stared Derek down in the park over a dropped sandwich crust.

 

“I didn’t say anything about omegas. I asked what you wanted.”

 

“Coming here was a mistake,” Derek grumbles. “My ankle hurts. I should go.” He stands, wincing when he tries to take a step.

 

“Mmmhmm,” Dr. Walker replies. “You should definitely go. Nevermind that you called me at 6 asking for an emergency session. You have the cash to burn. You don’t need to stay here and ask yourself what you want. That’s obviously beneath you. Too busy rushing towards your destination to waste time figuring out whether you’re going in the direction you want to or not.”

 

Derek groans. He hates it when Dr. Walker gets sarcastic on him. It reminds him of Stiles and traps him like a fly in a web. “Fine.”

 

“Sit down.”

 

He sits.

 

“So, now that you’re done with the usual tantrum, let me ask you a question: why do you think I was able to accommodate you today?”

 

“Because I’m paying $500 an hour?”

 

She tsks, but doesn’t deny it. “Yes, but I have other clients who try to book morning sessions.”

 

Derek nods. Of course she has other clients. She was fully booked even when he was seeing her almost every day back when he and Stiles first separated.

 

“If you have your PA check your calendar you’ll see that you’ve booked me for an emergency session every 45 days, like clockwork. Your heat cycle is 45 days long?”

 

Derek nods. 

 

“You come in, feeling unsettled, a few days before your heat. Your--”

 

“So what?” Derek shouts, surprised by the sudden elixir of hate he finds for her. Then again, it wouldn’t be a session without it. 

 

Dr. Walker doesn’t flinch. She’s accustomed to his outbursts. 

 

“I’m such a fucking slave to my biology that before every heat I want a baby so bad I have a breakdown. I should give in, bring more kids into this world because that’s what my body wants?”

 

“Why does what your body wants not count as what you want?”

 

“Because it’s not...I’m better than that. I don’t need to be just an omega.”

 

“Nobody is just an omega. Or just an alpha. You are Derek and you are an omega. You inhabit an omega body that sometimes experiences chemical reactions unique to being an omega. You don’t have to follow every omega instinct. You are more complicated than just your biology. But don’t second guess yourself by trying to compensate for your biology. Tell me: what do you want?”

 

Derek wants to punch her between those sharp, calculating eyes. He wants to rip the expressionless mask from her face and see the fucked up, disgusting human being he knows must lurk within. 

 

“I don’t know!”

 

“You do.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

She just keeps staring. Derek looks away, but he can still feel the expectation in the air, the heat of her scrutiny on his face. 

 

“Fine. I want another baby. Are you happy?” Is that what she wants him to say? Is that what he believes? He knows his body wants more children -- has wanted them since he went through the last round of IVF for Cora and Lydia. But it really isn’t a convenient time for him to be pregnant. And he’s getting older. It might not even work. They could try and try only to find that he’d fucked up his body too much the first time around, like the failure that he is.

 

“I’m happy you gave me an answer,” Dr. Walker concludes. “Is it true?”

 

Derek thinks about the twins, about the first time he saw them. Cassie was beautiful, so tiny and perfect. The hollowed out feeling that he’d been carrying around since Jennifer had evaporated in an instant. Derek isn’t stupid enough to believe that he can just use his children to fill the empty places in his life, to give him purpose, or determine his happiness. That’s too much to put on another human being. 

 

But he knows how happy they did make him. And Nate, he was so small, vulnerable in contrast to his sister when they finally were able to take him out of the incubator to bring to Derek. He was a miracle. When he opened his eyes and gazed at Derek with wonder and affection, with that quiet intelligence of his, Derek thought that it was all worth it. The heartache of being separated from Stiles, the trauma of the other babies dying, it was worth it to see that first squinted glimmer of those eyes.

 

And every moment since has somehow managed to be as magical. Moving out of his pretentious mansion to a quaint three bedroom house in a little neighborhood across the Bay, leaving HSI to work with Stiles, staying home and nursing his kids while he coordinated the business of the clinic from his laptop...it hadn’t been perfect, but it was so much more than he deserved.

 

Maybe he’s an addict, chasing the high that is his life, trying to hold onto things he can’t preserve. Cassie and Nate will grow up, not need their opa, become unruly teenagers. His sex life with Stiles will get stale to the point that he’ll see his heats as mere inconveniences. He’ll start to resent not flying off to Hong Kong on a private jet to save billions of dollars in an afternoon. Their kids will leave home and Stiles will wake up and realize that Derek has imprisoned him in their life together, that all the things he said years ago are still true - Derek stalked him then paid him off, entrapped him with hormones and a pregnancy like the gutter trash that Derek knows he is beneath the high class omega exterior.

 

“You want to verbalize any of those thoughts, go on ahead,” Dr. Walker says.

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“You don’t like to share when you’re beating yourself up, do you?”

 

“Why let you see the carnage?”

 

She doesn’t laugh. Derek doubts she has a sense of humor at all. Maybe she had it surgically removed in med school.

 

“I’m pretty familiar with the reasons why you think you’re not good enough,” Dr. Walker states. She leans forward, looking suddenly a little nervous with anticipation. That’s her trick, Derek thinks - to look like every word coming out of her patient’s mouth might suddenly end the world. “Let me guess: Stiles is going to wake up one day and realize you tricked him into falling in love with you.”

 

“How’d you know?”

 

“Negativity isn’t inherently creative. I’ve never met Stiles, but from the way you describe him, he must be in five cults, bought every As Seen On TV product, be constantly on the bottom of a pyramid scheme, considering his inability to make his own decisions.”

 

Derek just glares at her. Stiles is one of the most independent stubborn fuckers he knows. He wouldn’t love him otherwise.

 

“Ok. So I’m supposed to just give in to my body. Go get knocked up? Then I’ll be happy?”

 

“If that’s what you want to do. But I was thinking more along the lines of talking to Stiles about it. He might appreciate getting some input into the discussion.”

 

Derek feels his stomach clench with sudden-onset self-loathing. Of course he’d have to talk to Stiles about it. That much is fucking obvious. He’s back to his old self-centered, entitled ways. Almost five years of therapy and this is all he has to show for it?

 

“I guess I could.”

 

Dr. Walker nods, with finality as good as a covenant.

 

***

 

“Hey, babe,” Stiles says. He has Nate wrapped around one leg and Cassie hanging off his back as he stands by the sink. His ratty old “No H8” T-shirt has red paint smeared on its side like a wound, flour dusted around the collar, and suds where he wipes his hands on the bottom edge. “We made cookies, didn’t we, troops?”

 

“Chocolate chip!” Cassie squeals, slipping off Stiles’s back to run to Derek for a hug and kiss. Nate follows, quiet and measured as usual. “To ‘gratate with Aunt Lydia.”

 

“You mean to ingratiate yourselves with Aunt Lydia,” Stiles corrects. “Because she’s doing us a huge favor watching you while she’s so….”

 

“Pregnant people can still handle things, Stiles,” Derek snaps. He knows that Stiles doesn’t mean to be patronizing, but it’s so very _alpha_ that it grinds Derek’s last nerve. “Lydia and Cora always watch the kids during my heat.”

 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Okay.” He turns to the twins. “Why don’t you guys go pick out your towels and your toys and your books for tonight? We can use the big bath.” 

 

Derek hears the water rush as Stiles sets the tub to fill on his phone.

 

“What about dinner?” Derek asks. He doesn’t like to second guess Stiles’s parenting decisions when Stiles is the one home most of the time, but he’s got to draw the line somewhere. If Stiles is just going to sugar the kids up in lieu of dinner and then leave Derek to deal with wrangling them into bed, then he’s the one spending the night on the futon in the twins’ room, playing sleep cop.

 

“I fed them early. My strategy was to get them too full to skim much cookie dough. I needed to make Lydia something, is all. She’s been craving peanut butter cookies like no other and anything for my queen, you know?”

 

“I know,” Derek huffs. He’s well aware of how Stiles has been bending over backwards for Lydia - running errands, massaging her feet, taking her out to the spa. Derek knows it’s irrational to resent it, since Stiles wasn’t even present for most of Derek’s pregnancy and he was absolutely attentive when he was, but he never got Stiles’s baking to soothe his cravings, or trips to the spa, or errands, since he had Ethan and Aiden for all of that.

 

Is he jealous? Is this whole wanting to have babies thing just because he wants Stiles’s attention on him and not Lydia?

 

The self-loathing rises like bile, but Derek forces it down. He knows he’s worthy of Stiles’s love. He knows that Lydia is in love with his sister and not a threat. He knows that even if both those things are false, Stiles loves him. Irrationally, insanely, Stiles loves him. It’s the one thing he’s never really doubted, not even when Stiles claimed it was all just hormones.

 

Stiles pecks Derek on the cheek, oblivious to his resentment. “I know that Lydia can handle it. My goddess can handle all things, but I think maybe next time we give Isaac a turn.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

 

“Why? Because it’s just his love life that’s a trainwreck on top of a bus crash on top of a minor apocalypse. The kids adore him.”

 

Derek snorts. Considering that the last alpha Isaac dated turned out to be both married and a gambling addict, he can’t really argue with the apocalypse part. The parenting part on the other hand…. “That’s because he lets the twins walk all over him. I’m only looking out for him.”

 

“Hmm. He did let Nate dye his hair with food coloring that one time.... What about Jackson?”

 

“Jackson is a single parent of two, seems cruel to leave him with two more so we can spend the weekend having all the sex he’s not.” Derek doesn’t mention that maybe, if he gets pregnant, they won’t need any more heat-sitters until after Lydia and Cora are available again.

 

Stiles snorts. “Hate to break it to you, babe, but Jackson’s probably having more sex than we are. Won’t be long before he finds his next pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And by rainbow, I mean an old shriveled knot.”

 

“Stiles!” Derek exclaims, listening for the telltale thunder of the twins running for the staircase. The last time Stiles had let his sarcasm out without checking for Cassie, they’d had to explain to Melissa how her daughter learned the term “anal probe.”

 

“Yeah. I just wish Scott and Ally lived here, you know? They’d be the perfect babysitters. And since Scott can’t have any siblings for her, it’s even more important that Dahlia be close to her cousins.”

 

Derek hates how much missing his brother still affects Stiles, even though he’s resigned to the fact that Scott and Allison have made Boston their home.

 

“We could fly over there. Next weekend, maybe? Scott’s finishing up his residency. Time to make him an offer he can’t refuse to found our Boston clinic. We could bill everything but the kid’s tickets as a business expense.”

 

Derek has hope that maybe this time Scott will say yes, but he also doesn’t want to sit in coach the way Stiles always insists they do for personal travel.

 

Stiles gives a slight nod, but doesn’t shout his enthusiasm. Derek will just have to work on him a little more. It’ll be hard on his schedule, but Stiles will be happy to see his brother. Anything that makes Stiles happy is worth it.

 

“Next time, we can have Ethan drive the twins up to Beacon Hills to spend the weekend with the grandparents. And they’ll get to spend time with their other “cousin.” How does that sound?”

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles replies. “You’re a smart one. Definitely a keeper.” He finishes with the last of the dishes and gives Derek a peck on the cheek. “How was work?”

 

Derek shrugs. “I think the Blue Cross deal is going through. We’re going to need an influx of capital if we want to keep up with the patient volumes, though. Open a few more clinics and set up some temporary ones that we can ramp down once the initial wave of patients transitions to outpatient. I set up a meeting with Juan Fernando about floating an IPO.”

 

“Do we have to?” Stiles complains as he tries to wipe the soap suds off his hands with a dishtowel. “What about the vultures that you say sit on every board?” They’ve talked about this before and Stiles is skeptical, but Derek knows going public is the right choice. 

 

“It’s the right time. We’ve got market potential, great word of mouth, a significant impending deal. Either we go public now or we never do. But if we don’t, it’s going to mean a lot more schmoozing with investors. And I’ll probably have to get Laura to buy me out of my HSI shares to finance the expansion. Trust me, I know how to deal with an unruly board. I’ll make it work.”

 

Stiles sighs. “You’re right. Hephaestus is my baby, but I let you run the place for a reason. We’d be just one quirky Bay Area clinic if not for you. I trust you, my super smart, super sexy business omega.” Stiles gives him a peck on the cheek. “Though don’t think you can get away with not telling me about that limp.”

 

“Nothing to tell. I fell while I was out jogging.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Figures, you masochist. That’s just your karmic punishment for abandoning me at the crack of dawn to go torture yourself in the fog.”

 

Derek thinks back to the last time he’d hurt himself this way. Jennifer had scolded him for playing basketball with alphas. And he’d believed her. He was so fucking stupid then. He wonders if he’s that much smarter now.

 

“What, so you think I should just stay in bed and get fat?” he teases Stiles. He’s not concerned about being the ultra-thin ideal of an omega he’d tried to be for Jennifer, but if he’s going to keep an alpha who is mostly attracted to alphas, he should stay in shape.

 

Stiles snorts, but he’s looking at Derek with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Would it be so bad?” He reaches out to try to tickle Derek’s sides, but Derek grabs his wrists and shoves them back against the pantry door. “Keep you in bed and feed you Doritos until you’re nice and plump, like when you still had the baby weight and I could barely keep myself from bending you over and fucking you.”

 

Stiles leans in for a filthy kiss that is sure to leave flour and cookie dough all over Derek’s suit.

 

“If you had, you might have had to deal with a uterus on the floor.” Derek had barely been able to move after the emergency C-section. He’d felt swollen and drugged, and if he coughed, he worried his internal organs might come spilling out of his incision.

 

“Eww!” Stiles mock-shrieks. “You didn’t even have the courtesy to keep the weight on until you were DTF again.” Derek hadn’t been one of those omegas that was determined to lose the baby weight in the first two months. He’d just happened to have an already high metabolism, combined with breastfeeding twins. 

 

“What a shame. Maybe next time, if you beg, I’ll let myself go just a little.” Even though the idea of deliberately not staying in shape makes him cringe.

 

Stiles grins his dopiest grin, eyes sparkling. Derek could fall in love with him all over again from just that look. “Really? You’d have more?” He looks so delirious that Derek is worried he might have to support him on his bum ankle.

 

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about it,” he offers. It’s now or never. And Stiles will eventually find out where he went this morning from Aiden. That mercenary. “I went to Dr. Walker today.”

 

“Yeah, I know. Your pre-heat ‘emergency’ session,” Stiles says, making infuriating air quotes. 

 

“Does everyone recognize the pattern except for me?” Derek demands. If Stiles knew about it, the least he could do would be to inform Derek.

 

“No. Just me. Aiden. Lydia. Cassie. And probably Dr. Walker, now that I think about it.”

 

“Cassie?” Stiles must be exaggerating. “She can’t even count to forty five. Or read a calendar.”

 

“No, but she told me that ‘Opa gets weird before special apa/opa vacation.’”

 

Derek growls in frustration. Which only makes Stiles laugh, the bastard.

 

“Aw, is my little omega embarrassed,” Stiles giggles.

 

“I’ll show you embarrassed,” Derek snarls playfully into Stiles’s neck. His alpha smells so good today, like vanilla and cedar and the scent of rain.

 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Stiles blurts, exasperated. His arms reach around to grab Derek’s ass, digging in hard enough to bruise. “Tell me more about how you want to make a baby with me. Because I’m sad I missed it last time.” He pulls Derek in for a possessive kiss. “I didn’t get to see the ‘I’m suddenly too big for my pants’ phase or the ‘I’m knowingly fucking a baby into you’ phase or even the ‘belly big enough to see but not get in the way of sex phase.’”

 

Derek groans, because he’s hard in his pants, starting to leak imagining all of the things they’d get to do over, erase the hours spent fat and alone, hurting and missing his alpha.

 

“None of those are good reasons to have a baby,” Derek forces himself to remind them both. “Especially not now if we’re floating an IPO at the same time. That’s going to be worse than giving birth.”

 

Stiles pulls back from where he was nibbling at Derek’s bond bite. “Wait. You’re serious.”

 

Derek pushes him back, limping over to the breakfast nook table to sit down. Stiles grabs an ice pack from the fridge and props Derek’s leg up on another chair without prompting. 

 

It was hard enough admitting it to Dr. Walker, let alone Stiles. And Stiles didn’t even take him seriously? “Do you think I’d joke about that?” he hisses, finally hearing the telltale pounding of his kids making their way down the stairs. How can they weigh less than Derek can bicep curl and still sound like Godzilla?

 

Stiles frowns. “No, I guess not. You haven’t mentioned it before. I just thought you meant _someday_ not right this instant.”

 

“I’m thirty-seven,” Derek reminds him as the twins come stampeding into the room, Cassie with a Dinosaur towel and Nate with his usual favorite from Frozen. How it can take them almost ten minutes to retrieve those things is another mystery.

 

Cassie stops in her tracks, eying Derek suspiciously. “What happened to Opa?” she asks.

 

Nate peaks out from behind her, looking suddenly fearful.

 

“I twisted my ankle. I wasn’t careful and I ran where it was slippery,” Derek says, because if he’s hurt already, why not try to teach them a lesson about running around the pool?

 

“Does it hurt?” Nate asks, reaching out like he’s going to poke it. Thankfully, Stiles swats him away.

 

“Yes. But I’m okay. You two monsters ready for bath time?”

 

The twins nod eagerly. They’re always excited to use the huge tub with jets in the downstairs bathroom, which Derek is convinced was some kind of orgy room in the house’s past incarnation as a commune. Stiles says he’s being ridiculous, but didn’t protest Derek bleaching the whole thing when they moved in.

 

“I’ll take them,” Stiles volunteers. “Why don’t you get changed, rest your ankle a little. But you’re still on for storytime and then we’re resuming this conversation.” He finishes with a quick chaste kiss to Derek’s lips that leave them tingling as he sends a few emails from his phone and texts Scott about going back east next weekend. 

 

His ankle is pleasantly numb by the time he has to sit next to a fidgeting Cassie on Nate’s bed as he reads from Where the Sidewalk Ends. He’s not as good at this as Stiles, who does hilarious voices and sound effects and occasional extemporaneous story “enhancements,” but when Derek went back to work full time, the deal had been that he’d do all the bonding time with the kids in the evenings. Surprisingly, the twins don’t seem to mind Derek’s one and only wacky voice, which is basically Christian Bale in Batman, if Stiles’s teasing is to be believed.

 

After they both kiss the kids goodnight, Stiles herds Derek downstairs to curl up on the couch with some vegan lasagna their lesbian communist neighbors gave to Stiles for an undisclosed favor he helped them with. From what Derek knows it could be anything from watching their cat to lending them their children to use in a piece of performance art about the plight of the proletariat. 

 

They get through almost an entire episode of Stranger Things before Stiles grabs the butterscotch pecan ice cream he stashes at the back of the freezer for ‘serious adult conversations.’

 

“So, you want more kids, huh?” he says, nudging Derek with his thigh. He’s grinning like he’s a sixteen-year-old who just got to touch a nipple for the first time.

 

“Kid,” Derek clarifies, taking the offered spoon to scoop some ice cream directly out of the container. “Probably. Let’s start with deciding if we want one more.”

 

“Kid,” Stiles agrees. “You want me to put one kid in your belly.” He points at Derek’s midsection with his spoon before popping it in his mouth.

 

“Don’t act so satisfied. And we’re not doing this because you have a pregnancy fetish.”

 

“Fine. Ruin my fun, grumpybear. Do you really want this?”

 

Derek takes a deep breath. He’s the one who brought it up. But Dr. Walker is right. It’s a decision they need to make together. “I want another kid. My hormones do. But the company is taking off. We’re busy. It isn’t practical.”

 

“Yeah, but you want it?”

 

Derek nods. He’s wanted it for a while, he realizes. He doesn’t just want a do-over of his first miserable pregnancy. He wants his kids to have a younger sibling, someone to take care of the way he took care of Cora. He wants another baby, too, to see another version of him and Stiles and discover what he or she will be.

 

Stiles is in his lap all of a sudden, kissing him desperately. “I want one too. I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to ask you.”

 

Derek snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t need to get up the nerve for anything. You were plotting exactly how to ask me so I’d say yes.”

 

“Yes, and now you’ll never get to know my magnificent plot. You’re missing out. You would have gotten lots of backrubs, steak tartare in the bathtub, sex in a hot air balloon, and a signed Giant’s baseball.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, ticking off Stiles’s list on his fingers. “I’m going to get all the backrubs I want once I’m pregnant. I don’t need you in order to eat steak tartare in the bathtub. I have no desire to have sex in a hot air balloon. And I already had a signed Giant’s baseball, but I had it auctioned for that Omega’s Shelter benefit.”

 

“Ugh, you’re infuriating. Why do I want to procreate with you again? Will you be this smug the whole pregnancy?”

 

Derek realizes that they’ve been talking about it as though wanting it makes it a good idea. But they have to be pragmatic. They can’t just have everything they want. Life is close enough to perfect as it is, more perfect than they deserve. He shouldn’t ruin it by asking too much. “You don’t have to,” he says. “Procreate with me, I mean.”

 

“Yeah? Who else am I going to knock up? Jackson?” Stiles makes a horrified face.

 

“Well he is attractive to everybody. He told me so himself.”

 

Stiles laughs, joyous and a little manic, Derek’s favorite kind. “You think he’s right?”

 

Derek shrugs. He’s not a lesbian, but Jackson does have amazing bone structure.

 

“No!” Stiles exclaims, bopping Derek on the nose like he’s a misbehaving puppy. “If you’re going to have a lesbian crush, at least pick someone who I could spend five minutes with without wanting to murder.”

 

“You know, Scott is kind of cute….”

 

“No! Don’t you dare!”

 

“Isaac?”

 

“Nope. He’s my kill in every fuck, marry, kill scenario ever. Hitler, Putin, and Isaac - kill Isaac.”

 

“Kira.”

 

“If you want your sister’s sloppy seconds.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes! I caught them making out in the laundry room at the twins’ birthday party.”

 

“You didn’t tell me.”

 

“That was when Nate and Gracie superglued themselves together. I got distracted.”

 

“That’s some pretty big gossip, Alpha Hale,” Derek teases, still loving the sound of Stiles with his last name, even though it’s been a year since they got drunk at that conference in Vegas and got married by Spock and Elvis. “How dare you hide information about your husband’s own sister.”

 

Stiles chuckles, but he knows this game. They’ve played it hundreds of times. “Oh no! Was I disobedient? You’d better punish me then.” He half keels over, almost slipping out of Derek’s lap in his over-the-top submission.

 

Derek would like to flip them around, but his ankle still aches. He settles for grabbing Stiles by the wrists and yanking him into a biting, punishing kiss. “Punish you? Why should I punish you? You’re nothing but a big fat knot to me. I just need to keep you around long enough to breed me. Once i’ve drained you of your seed, why keep you around?”

 

At first, Derek had shocked himself with this kind of dirty talk. He loves Stiles more than anything and he’s anything but just a convenient knot, but Stiles loves it whenever Derek takes charge or objectifies him or makes him submit in any way and Derek has only grown more confident in his weird kinks since. He hopes that this is no exception.

 

Judging by Stiles’s smirk, the dominance completely landed. Stiles takes just long enough to tell Siri to lock the living room door and turn on the soundproofing and baby monitor, before yanking down his pants.

 

“See that?” he points to the bulge tenting his Batman boxers. “Is that why you keep me around?” He grabs Derek’s hand and shoves it against his crotch. Stiles’s skin is hot and his knot is already firming up just slightly. He gasps as Derek reaches in the slit of his boxers to give him a firm stroke.

 

“The only reason,” he gasps into Stiles’s mouth. “All I want is to be stuck on it while you pump me full.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles moans, stepping back just enough to pull off Derek’s sweatpants and his underwear. Derek feels self-conscious that Stiles has left his socks on for about two seconds before Stiles is kissing down his neck, yanking aside his tank top to suck at his nipple. 

 

Derek’s internal muscles clench and he feels slickness between his legs. His nipples are sore from the breast pump this morning and because they’re swollen with extra milk - Nate hadn’t wanted much tonight. But if Stiles is really going to get his VDD out before Derek’s heat, he won’t even have to worry about never nursing again.

 

“Mmmm…” Stiles groans as Derek’s milk lets down a little. He knows exactly how to nip at Derek, just enough to arouse without reminding Derek’s of Cassie’s teething phase. 

 

Stiles shifts just a little so he can slip right in. Derek feels warm and full, protected as Stiles thrusts slowly into him while he nurses the last of Derek’s milk out. 

 

“You feel so good,” Stiles babbles. “You taste so sweet. Can’t wait until you’re pregnant again and your tits swell up. I’ll keep milking you and fucking you. I’ll keep you nice and full, stuffed full of my baby and my cum. I’ll fuck you so hard you...mphf.”

 

Derek silences Stiles with a hand over his mouth. As hot as it is to hear Stiles wax poetic about breeding him, Derek needs to remind him who is in control here.

 

“Shut up and fuck me,” he commands. “You think you can put a baby in me like that? Just lazily shoving your dick in me? Come on, fuck me like you mean it. I’m not going to accept your seed until I can see fucking stars.”

 

Stiles whimpers, but obeys. His breath is hot against Derek’s palm. He heaves himself into Derek, pushing him down as he rams in deep. His knot is swelling, catching on Derek’s rim. Derke doesn’t care if he’ll be sore tomorrow. He wants Stiles to get in deeper, fuck him harder, knock him up with the force of his thrusts, as irrational as it may be.

 

“Is that all you’ve got?” he gasps, biting down on Stiles’s lip as a particularly hard thrust slams into his prostate to the point where he might be seeing stars after all. “Oh fuck. Stiles, come on, harder.”

 

Stiles stands up then, flipping Derek over so that he’s on his knees on the couch. He rams back in, barely breaking his rhythm. Derek’s face gets slammed into the soft back of the couch as he uses all his muscles to brace himself. 

 

“Gonna knot...oh, Jesus....gonna knot,” Stiles pants.

 

“Do it,” Derek replies in between thrusts. “Fuck. Knot me. Knock me up.”

 

Stiles lets out an almost animal shout as his knot expands. Derek feels the rush that comes with having his alpha orgasm inside him. Stiles reach around to give Derek’s cock one quick stroke before he’s coming too, just a soft dribble into Stiles’s hand. 

 

Derek can barely catch his breath. He feels utterly spent, content. The tension from the morning is gone and he’s nothing but a languid puddle, held up only by Stiles’s arm around his waist. 

 

“Mmmm,” Stiles groans. It’s awkward, but they’re experts at this by now, shuffling around wordlessly so that they’re spooned on the couch while Stiles’s knot deflates. Stiles throws a Monsters Inc. blanket over them with zero sense of irony. It doesn’t take long for the knot to deflate. Or maybe Derek dozed off for a minute. 

 

“You really mean it?” Stiles asks. His arms tighten around Derek to keep him from moving even though they’re still tied. “You want to have a baby with me?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says.

 

“Even after everything that happened?”

 

“Yeah.” There’s not much more to say. Derek doesn’t want to revisit the hurt, the distrust, the manipulation, all the horrible things he did to Stiles out of his own fear...all the mistakes they made. 

 

“So this is how I can make it up to you?” Stiles asks.

 

Derek thinks about his two beautiful children, his amazing husband, their company and all the good they’re doing, the new family he has because of Stiles, the future he has to look forward to instead of dread, even his stupid shrink and her impenetrable stares. Gratitude is better than happiness, he thinks. Maybe it’s sick of him to think that way. Maybe he’s just filling the hole in his heart with following Stiles’s desires and those of his kids. Maybe he’s even sicker than before because he doesn’t feel wrong. He’s oblivious to all the ways he could be fucking things up right now, being selfish and wanting more.

 

But he doesn’t feel like it. He has to trust himself. Who else can he trust?

 

He kisses his husband, slow and sweet and lingering.

 

“You don’t have anything to make up for. Neither of us do.”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe it's finally done!
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with this story for literally years and to Laisserais for betaing, prodding, and inspiration!


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